Consequences
by prophet87
Summary: Oliver and Chloe are engaged, and the Green Arrow is smashing the crime syndicates of Metropolis. But Ollie is still haunted by painful memories, and an old enemy is plotting a lethal game which can have only one outcome - the death of Oliver Queen.
1. Chapter 1: The Arrow is Back!

So here we go again! After a lot of thought I have decided to write another story - and of course it is about the most exciting hero on the small screen, Green Arrow!

First of all, can I say how much I'm enjoying the new season, and especially the fact that Ollie is getting some good storylines. I enjoyed his dark arc (although maybe not enough Ollie angst for my taste) and I am now so excited to see him back as Green Arrow. All the Chlollie speculation on the fan boards is amazing - whatever happens, we are going to see them together more and more as they team up to help Clark. In a way all this Ollie is a problem - it is giving me too many new ideas! I have got so many stories in my head, it is difficult to know where to start. Only one thing is certain in my stories - Ollie and Chloe have to go through hell to achieve happiness (I'm evil, I know).

I have decided to pick up where I left off at the end of my last story, "The Ordeal." This is set before Season Eight, just to be clear. I'm going to try to keep it relatively short - not another marathon like "The Ordeal." After that I've got another couple of ideas floating around, but after watching the rest of this season who knows what new ideas might develop. These stories wil focus on Ollie, and his relationship with Chloe. I know people want more Clark, and I promise he will appear more in this story. However, the Green Arrow is the character that really fires my imagination - I guess I like my heroes to be human, flawed and vulnerable.

This story can stand on its own - you don't need to have read the others (but I'd love it if you did!). For those of you who do want the background, here are the key points:

Oliver was held prisoner by Lex, during which time he was subjected to a variety of torments, not least by Lex's henchwoman Akunin.

Oliver eventually escaped with the help of Chloe and the Justice League, and now Lex is a prisoner, held in a secret Queen Industries facility.

Jimmy is in love with Chloe, betraying Oliver and the others in order to win her love. Despite his actions, his betrayal remains undiscovered, but he still wants to make Chloe his own.

Oliver has proposed to Chloe.

Clear? Okay, let's go!

**Chapter One: The Arrow is Back!**

Sam Tollin was a worried man.

He was trying his best to hide his anxiety, of course – when you are the representative of one of the most important crime syndicates supplying cocaine to the US market it is never a good idea to wear your heart on your sleeve. The five heavily armed men who stood nearby looked to him for leadership, and not for a minute was he going to let them down. He had an image to maintain; he was the syndicate's man in Metropolis, a killer who had stepped over countless corpses to reach the position he was in today. Lucky Sam Tollin, they called him – a crime baron who had grown rich off the misery of others but who the authorities had never been able to nail. Well he didn't feel so lucky now.

A cold wind blew across the compound, causing Tollin to pull his heavy coat around him a little tighter. The shipment was late, a fact that only served to make him even more jumpy. He wouldn't normally do this, of course – meeting shipments was something he left to his subordinates, especially when they were due in at one thirty in the morning. But his bosses had insisted he supervise this shipment personally, and so here he was, standing in the middle of an anonymous compound in the industrial district of the city, cold and anxious. He understood why his masters wanted him there – if he was in their position he'd have demanded the same. Until two weeks ago he'd been left to control the Metropolis operation on his own; he was a safe pair of hands, a man who knew his way round the city, and who had all the right connections in the right places. And then it had all fallen apart, leaving him reeling and his bosses demanding action. Four shipments had been hit in under fourteen days. Sixteen of his men had been arrested, but more importantly he'd lost hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of drugs, confiscated by the authorities. It was a disaster, there was no other word for it – and he knew that if he didn't regain control of the situation soon then arrest by the Metropolis PD would be the least of his problems.

_How can one man do this to me? How can one vigilante freak destroy all that I've built up in this city over twelve years?_

The sound of something metal falling to the ground caused Tollin and his men to spin round, their fingers poised on the triggers of their guns. For a split second the atmosphere was taut, each man expecting to come face to face with their nemesis; only the sight of a cat scurrying across the open ground caused them to relax a little, before resuming once more their edgy, silent wait. Tollin's face darkened as he thought of the man who had single-handedly brought his carefully constructed world to the brink of collapse. He'd heard of the Green Arrow before, of course – the leather clad vigilante who headed up a group of would-be crime fighters. But up until now he'd not been a problem; Lex Luthor had been his number one target, and the remainder of Metropolis's criminal fraternity had been left alone in peace. Then Lex had disappeared after that fire in the LuthorCorp building, and suddenly all hell had broken loose. Was the archer responsible for Lex's disappearance? Tollin suspected he was, but he wasn't going to cry any tears for Luthor – he had far more urgent concerns. In a little under a fortnight the Arrow had attacked his operation at locations all across the city, capturing both his men and his merchandise before handing them over to the authorities. It seemed incredible that one man, armed with nothing more than his wits and a bow, could take out some of the best hired muscle that money could buy. He was running rings around Tollin, and destroying his reputation into the bargain. At the same time, of course, his own status as a popular hero was growing by the day, helped by a press that couldn't get enough stories about the city's very own Robin Hood. Hell, he'd even managed to drive the engagement of that playboy Oliver Queen off the front pages – now that really _was_ something.

The sound of a vehicle's engine disturbed the silence of the night air. Tollin felt relieved that at last the wait was over; the shipment was here, and within a few minutes it would be safely locked away in his warehouse. As the gates to the compound opened and the truck hove into view he dared to think that at last his luck might have turned, and that he'd take possession of a delivery without any unexpected surprises. He'd be able to tell his bosses that because he'd taken personal charge of the operation there had been no slip –ups, and maybe – just maybe – that would go some way towards rebuilding his reputation in the syndicate.

Tollin watched as two of his men unlocked the rear doors to the truck and started to unload the delivery. The other three guards continued to scour the area, their guns at the ready, searching for even the slightest hint that they might not be alone. They were all tense, but after a minute or so they started to relax; the only uninvited guest to disturb the delivery was the cat returning from its nocturnal hunt, a mouse gripped firmly in its jaws.

The unloading complete, one of Tollin's men walked across to where he was standing.

"The shipment's complete – thirteen..." The man stopped in mid sentence, his eyes widening slightly as he appeared to freeze for a moment. He then fell forward, Tollin instinctively reaching out to catch him in his arms. For a split second Tollin could not comprehend what had happened, but then he saw it: an arrow, protruding from the man's back a few inches below his left shoulder blade.

"He's here!" he shouted, panic in his voice. He quickly allowed the dead weight of the man to fall to the ground, gripping his gun firmly in his hands as his eyes scoured the gloom of the compound, darting this way and that as he desperately tried to locate the as yet unseen assailant. His men did likewise, the relief that they had felt just moments before giving way to barely concealed fear.

A sound: almost inaudible, as if something was passing through the air at great speed....

Tollin barely had time to register its meaning before another of his men slumped to the ground, an arrow piercing his shoulder.

"Where is he? I can't see him! Can anyone see him?" One of Tollin's men shouted desperately into the night air, his eyes searching wildly for the vigilante who they knew had to be very close.

"There! Up there!"

In an instant all eyes looked upwards and towards a container that stood to one side of the compound. For a split second they saw the sight that had come to strike terror into the hearts of the criminals of Metropolis; a tall, well built man silhouetted against the moonlight, his head covered by the hood that served to protect his identity.

The Green Arrow.

They fired, sending a hail of bullets in the direction of their attacker. As soon as the shots rang out he disappeared from view, and for a moment Tollin thought they must have got him. Only when he turned towards the others did he realise that it was he, and not the Arrow, who had suffered another loss; a third man lay paralysed on the ground, an arrow sticking out from his right leg.

Behind him the sound of an engine starting up provided a momentary distraction; the truck driver had lost his nerve, and had decided on a quick getaway. As he sped out of the compound Tollin and his two remaining men stood rooted to the spot, staring at the container where they had last seen their attacker, their hearts pumping hard in their chests.

"He's there somewhere – find him and kill him!" ordered Tollin, gesturing with his gun for his men to go forward. They hesitated for a moment, before slowly they moved in the direction of the container, guns at the ready. As Tollin watched they disappeared from view, and then suddenly he was alone.

Silence at once seemed to envelope him, its all pervasive force strangely louder than any scream; only the sound of his laboured breathing provided some reassuring relief from the tension of the moment.

Tollin's ears strained for the slightest sound, any hint of what might be taking place in the shadows behind the container.

There was none.

The seconds seemed to pass unbearably slowly, and, even though it was a cold night, Tollin could feel sweat soaking his shirt and making it stick to his skin. Where were they? Why hadn't he heard anything?

"Richards? Marshall? What's happening?" Unable to bear the wait any longer, Tollin shouted fornlornly into the blackness.

The voice that answered – deep, authoritative, unyielding - caused his gut to turn over.

"They can't hear you, Tollin – it's just you and me now."

Tollin spun round, to find the Green Arrow standing twenty feet away from him, his crossbow levelled straight at him. Terror finally overwhelming him, he fired wildly in the direction of the vigilante; he didn't stop to see whether his shot had found its target, but instead turned and ran desperately towards his car. Nothing mattered now but escape – not the fate of his men, not the fortune in cocaine that lay abandoned in the center of the compound, not his fear of the retribution of his bosses should he fail yet again. He just wanted to get away, to escape from the man who seemed almost unstoppable.

Within seconds he had made it to his car. Not pausing to look back, he fumbled with the ignition, at last managing to get the engine to spring into life. With a screech of tires he pulled away, turning in a wide arc so that he faced the entrance of the compound. As the open gates came into view his eyes widened as he saw that his way was blocked by the Arrow, who stood motionless in the entrance. Tollin did not hesitate; he pressed his foot down hard on the gas, aiming the car straight at his attacker. The Arrow did not move, but as Tollin bore down on him simply raised his bow. He fired, and then suddenly Tollin seemed to lose all control over the car. It lurched to the left, and as his mind registered that an arrow must have taken out one of his tires the vehicle impacted with the wall, bringing his attempted escape to an abrupt halt.

Tollin realised he must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he knew he was being pulled roughly from the car and slammed hard against its side. Disorientated, he felt his arms being pulled behind him, before metal cuffs were snapped into place around his wrists.

"Game over, Tollin – I thought you and your pet apes would have put up a better fight," said the Arrow, flipping his prisoner over onto his back so that he could look at him face to face.

"You'll pay for this, you freak!" Tollin almost spat out his words, staring up at the shades that hid his captor's identity.

"That all you got? I'm disappointed, Tollin – at least Lex Luthor always had a good line when I kicked his ass."

"You don't know what you've done, you piece of shit! Do you think taking me out is going to change anything? They'll replace me, just like I replaced Wilson. Only now they're going to come after you, and they won't stop until they've killed you, do you here? You've signed your own death warrant, hero boy – you're a dead man!"

Tollin's words were brought to a sudden halt by Oliver's fist, which impacted hard on the man's left cheek; Tollin slumped forward, silenced by the knockout blow.

"You talk too much," said Oliver, reaching for his earpiece. "Watchtower, do you read me? Come in Watchtower."

"Hearing you loud and clear, Green Arrow."

Oliver smiled at the sound of Chloe's voice; no matter how many times he heard it, he still felt a tingle of excitement to know that the woman he loved was with him on every mission, his eyes and ears in a dangerous city.

"Mission accomplished, Watchtower. This time we bagged the main man – Tollin's here, along with a few hundred thousand dollars worth of cocaine."

"Any trouble?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"I'll let the police know – they'll be there in five minutes."

"And I'll be with you in ten. It's been a good night, Watchtower – any thoughts on how we might celebrate?" Oliver grinned as he spoke, visualising in his mind's eye Chloe's reaction; he could see her face reddening with a mixture of embarrassment and childlike anticipation at his words.

"Just get your leathered ass back here, okay? And who knows – I'm sure I can find some way to reward Metropolis's most famous hooded hero." The playfulness in Chloe's voice was unmistakable, and Oliver could not help but feel of a flush of excitement as he thought about the night that lay ahead, a night he would spend in the arms of the woman he loved.

As Oliver cut the link to Chloe he glanced down, his eyes falling on the front page of yesterday's copy of "The Daily Planet" which lay on the passenger seat of Tollin's car. Two headlines glared back at him, headlines which seemed to sum up the turnaround in his fortunes since his escape from Luthor nearly a month before.

_ARROW APPREHENDS ANOTHER DRUG GANG: ORGANISED CRIME IN METROPOLIS LEFT REELING_

_OLIVER QUEEN EXCLUSIVE: "I'M SO IN LOVE"_

_If only they knew, _he thought to himself. _If only they knew._

At the same time as Oliver was staring at the front page of the Planet another figure was looking at the exact same headlines, his eyes squinting in the gloom of his small workshop located on the other side of the city. It was late, but the man had no intention of calling it a night; he had work to do, a schedule to maintain. The bench at which he sat was strewn with an assortment of wires, microchips and tools, all scattered in what appeared to be a hopelessly disorganised fashion across the surface. To the casual observer the sight conjured up an image of some amateur maker of models, a man who enjoyed taking things apart and putting them back together again, for no particular purpose. The appearance of the man himself seemed to confirm this view; a squat, round faced man with greasy hair and skin drenched in sweat, he looked every inch the geek, one of life's losers who sought refuge from his own shortcomings in his own private world of electronics and machines.

But appearances can be deceptive. This was no ordinary loner, living a life of solitude with his tools and his circuits. This was one of the most gifted engineers of his generation, a prodigious talent who until recently had seemed destined for a glittering career in research and development with some of the world's leading companies. He'd had everything to live for, until it was all take away from him – by the man whose smiling face now stared back at him from the front page of the newspaper.

Carefully the man picked up a pair of scissors, and began to cut into the newspaper. At first his cuts were big, almost casual, but this changed once he reached the image he wanted to make his own. With painstaking precision he carefully cut round the picture of the man whose face dominated the Planet's front page, taking care to trace every curve, every line, so that eventually a perfect image was separated from the remainder of the paper. For a moment he held it in his hand, as if searching for some error in his handiwork, some blemish that might give cause for him to reject it. Satisfied that there was none, he stood up from his bench and took the two or three steps necessary to arrive at the side wall of his workshop and the large display board that was mounted there. Pulling a pin from his pocket, he tacked the image to the board, before taking a red marker pen from the same pocket. He hesitated for a second, and then with a force that stood in stark contrast to the care with which he worked previously, he scrawled one word across the face of the man whose picture he had taken such care to preserve:

_LIAR_

Satisfied with his work, he took a step back. The picture fitted in well with the others on the board. Hundreds of others, in fact, stretching from the floor almost to the ceiling. Big pictures, small pictures, taken from newspapers, business journals, society magazines. All of one man, a smiling, handsome man, a man who was currently the toast of Metropolis society after his miraculous return from the dead and his engagement to the journalist Chloe Sullivan. And every picture had the same coarse red writing etched like a scar across it, with only the word varying from image to image:

_LIAR_

_TRAITOR_

_PARASITE_

_LEACH_

_DIE!_

The man smiled as he looked at his work. The board was almost complete, as was his plan. Within a fortnight the city would be mourning the death of its favorite billionaire, and he would at last have his revenge for the wrong that was done to him.

_Enjoy your final days, Mr Queen, _he thought to himself. _For soon, I, Winslow Schott, will make you pay for what you have done to me. We're going to play a little game, you and I - a game where **I** will make all the rules._

* * *

Hope you liked it - thought I'd start with some classic Green Arrow action. Toyman is going to be the villain of this story - so far on the show he hasn't given Oliver nearly enough trouble! Please do let me know what you think by posting a review, however short - they mean so much, and encourage me to write even when I don't want to!


	2. Chapter 2: Nightmares

NOTE: If you want the background to this chapter, read Chapter 14 of my story "The Ordeal."

**Chapter Two: Nightmares**

_He could not help himself._

_As his hands pulled her naked body against his her scent filled his nostrils. It was a scent with which he had become all too familiar, after so many encounters in who knew how many seedy hotel rooms in downtown Metropolis. Why was he here? Why was he taking such an incredible risk? It would only take one phone call from a hotel clerk in need of some much needed extra cash and his sordid, shameful secret would be out there for all to know – for all to talk about, to gossip about. He could see the headlines now, screaming from the front page of the Planet: "Oliver Queen Sex Scandal: Billionaire's Secret Affair." The risks were so great, and Chloe – what about Chloe? If she knew the truth it would kill her – how could he do that to her? She loved him more than anyone had ever loved him, and yet here he was, betraying her in the most devastating manner imaginable. It made no sense, nothing made any sense....._

_But he could not help himself. He had always been a thrill seeker, of course – how else could you explain the fact that every night he donned the leathers of the Green Arrow and put his life on the line fighting the criminals of Metropolis. But this was more than just the need for a thrill, the need to live life on the edge. This was an addiction – there was no other word for it. She was like a drug to him, and he could not live without his fix, however dirty he felt afterwards. And _how_ he felt dirty – the shame he felt was almost overwhelming. He didn't know how Chloe didn't see it, because to him it was if his infidelity was branded across his face. But she didn't see it, of course – which made it even worse. Every day she would smile that innocent smile at him, still the joyful lover intoxicated on the purity of her love. And he would smile back – a false smile, a smile that hid the truth of his betrayal. He was loved by the most beautiful woman in the world, but still he could not remain faithful, still he was drawn back here, to her. Like a moth to a flame, he was mesmerised by her power, her seductiveness; her hold over him now was as powerful as it had been all those weeks ago, when she had first taken him in Lex's lair..._

_She was pressing against him now, seeking to draw him in, make him cast off his inhibitions. He didn't want to respond, but his body was not his own. She was in control – she was always in control. The touch of her skin was so soft, so unbelievably sensual, that he could not resist. He felt her hands running through his hair, slipping over his muscular back and down towards his ass. She knew how to please him, touch him in a way that Chloe never could. His eyes closed in anticipation of what was to come, he surrendered to his need to have her, smothering her neck and lips with kisses filled with the animal passion that only she could satisfy. _

"_Rachel!" he gasped, his passions fully aroused. For a moment their faces parted, and he opened his eyes. And there she was, smiling as she always smiled – with a malevolence born of a knowledge that he was still her prisoner, as surely as he had been when he had been chained up and at her mercy in Luthor's cage._

"_That's right, Ollie – give yourself to me! You're mine, Oliver – you'll always be mine!"_

_And she was right – there was no escape. _

_He was still the slave of Rachel Akunin._

"No!"

Oliver sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide open. For a split second his mind could not adjust to the new reality and he sat absolutely still, only his labored breathing breaking the silence.

_A nightmare – it had been a nightmare_. As Oliver's heartbeat began to subside he felt a wave of relief that what had seemed so vividly real just seconds before was in fact no more than a product of his troubled subconscious. He glanced to his side, suddenly fearful that he might have woken Chloe. His concern was unfounded; she still lay sleeping next to him, her face a picture of contentment in the half light that slipped through the blinds at the window. He smiled, and for an all too brief moment the memory of earlier in the evening drove away the terror of his nightmare. They had made love, and it had been as exciting and as exhilarating as their first time together. He could still not quite believe how lucky he was, to have found in Chloe a woman so perfect that at last he felt complete. How had he lived without her? It seemed impossible to comprehend. He was the luckiest man alive, if only the nightmares would go away...

Silently Oliver slipped from between the sheets and made his way to the door. He needed some air; his body drenched with sweat, he needed to move, to think. Taking care to close the door to the bedroom behind him, he turned on the lights of the penthouse, hoping that the familiar surroundings would help to banish the lingering sense of unease left by his nightmare. It did not; he was not surprised, because he had gone through the same routine for six or seven nights now. He would drift off to sleep, hoping that this would be the night when at last he would be allowed to sleep untroubled by his recollections of the trauma he had endured. But every night his hopes would be dashed, as he would wake drenched in sweat, haunted by a nightmare that seemed terrifyingly real.

And the worst thing was, _it was the_ _same nightmare_.

Night after night it was the same – him making love with Akunin in some anonymous hotel. He never had nightmares about Lex, or about the physical tortures he had suffered during his long imprisonment. It was always about _her._ Why? He tried to be rational, to remind himself that she was dead, and that she couldn't harm him now. But it was no use – he could not drive her from his subconscious. She had known it would be like this, when she had told him as she lay dying that she would always be a part of him. He'd dismissed it at the time, but now her words resonated in his mind with a remarkable power. Why couldn't he escape from her grip? In his heart he knew the answer, of course. She had violated him in a way that Lex never could, robbed him of his dignity and self respect. She had taken him – and she had made it seem so easy. It didn't matter that she had drugged him – he still felt an immense shame as he thought of those terrible images she recorded, images of his betrayal of Chloe. He had wanted to be her hero, the perfect lover – and Akunin had made him feel hollow, worthless.

Preoccupied with his fears and doubts, he barely noticed that he had walked to the small cabinet which contained the only thing that could give him peace. Perhaps it was because he'd taken those steps too many times now, it was as if he was on autopilot. He paused for a moment, knowing that what he was about to do was no solution to his problems, but merely a temporary escape. He knew he needed help - he knew he needed to talk to Chloe. He wanted to confide in her, but time and again something held him back. Was it shame? Fear of laying bare his betrayal? He knew she would understand – she always understood – and yet still he could not bring himself to talk to her, to share his pain.

And so he had to face it alone. Or rather, he had to face it with a bottle.

He opened the cabinet and took out a glass and a bottle of scotch. The decision made, he poured himself a triple, and then downed it in one gulp. It wasn't a solution, he knew that, but solutions could wait. Now he needed to escape, to sleep an untroubled sleep – and if the drink could give him that, then so be it.

Without hesitation, he poured himself another.

* * *

"Oliver..."

Chloe's voice, soft and comforting, sounded in Oliver's head, disturbing his heavy, scotch-induced slumber. For a moment he did not respond, something within him saying this was another dream, or rather another dream that would turn into a nightmare. He'd had enough of those; he wanted to stay in the peaceful darkness that the alcohol had created.

"Oliver....it's me, Chloe."

There it was again, and this time Chloe's voice could not be mistaken for a dream. Her scent was filling his nostrils, and he could feel her hand caressing his face, her touch so gentle, so tender.

He slowly opened his eyes, taking time to focus. Where was he? His back ached, the pain reminding him that he had spent the last few hours not in his own bed, but on the couch. In front of him on a low table stood the half empty bottle of scotch, a silent reproach to his own weakness. And then there was Chloe, perched beside him on the couch, her face a picture of concern and unconditional love.

"Chloe..." he said, his voice sounding dry and weak. He tried to pull himself up, but she stopped him, her hand resting gently but firmly on his chest.

"You lie there a minute," she said quietly. For a second the two looked at each other, each trying to find the right words. Chloe wanted to show she loved him, that she was there for him; she wanted him to open up to her, to allow her to share his pain and make it alright. And Oliver so desperately wanted to let her in, but somehow he couldn't; the words would just not come, and that made him feel as if he was letting her down all over again.

"Another bad dream?" she said simply. He did not respond, but simply looked at her, his eyes sad and lost. He looked so vulnerable, Chloe felt a wave of emotion building within her – why was this happening to him, after all he had been through?

"I know," she said, "I know." She said no more, but instead leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. It was a simple act, but an act that said more than any words; they understood each other in a way that only lovers could.

She glanced across at the half empty bottle. His eyes followed her gaze, and he felt a flush of shame; how could he put her through this?

"Oliver, promise that next time you'll wake me. Promise that next time you won't ....."

"I promise," he interrupted, his words full of certainty. "I swear to you, Chloe – whatever happens, I won't touch it again."

* * *

Hope you enjoyed that, guys - after the Green Arrow action of the last chapter I wanted to establish that Oliver is still suffering from the aftermath of his ordeal as Lex's prisoner. We've seen on the show that Ollie can turn to drink when he's in trouble, and so it seemed natural to show him hitting the bottle here. The next few chapters will see Toyman beginning his plan to destroy our hero, and Jimmy back to his old tricks in trying to prise Chloe and Oliver apart. I'll try to get a chapter up next week, but I can't guarantee it - life is really busy at the moment.

Thanks so much to you wonderful reviewers - your encouragement means everything to me! Please do post a review, however short - they are my inspiration!


	3. Chapter 3: Deceptions

Before you read this, please remember that Jimmy's love for Chloe turned into a dangerous obsession in my last story, "The Ordeal." He not only betrayed Oliver, but almost murdered him in cold blood in order to make Chloe his own. He also knows about Oliver's secret life as the Green Arrow.

**Chapter Three: Deceptions**

"Chloe, what's wrong?"

Jimmy's voice penetrated Chloe's thoughts, drawing her away from her worries and back to the reality of midday Metropolis. She looked across at the young man who sat opposite her in the coffee shop, embarrassed that she had allowed thoughts of what had happened earlier in the day to come between her and one of her closest friends. She'd agreed to meet Jimmy for a coffee and a bite to eat; they'd seen little of each other since their escape from the LuthorCorp building, what with the media circus that had surrounded her engagement to Oliver and her private concerns about his mental state. She'd wanted to make up for lost time, to touch base with the man who had stood alongside her during her long search for Oliver, and now she felt guilty that instead of giving him her full attention she was allowing her other life to intrude.

"You look worried, Chloe – what's wrong?"

Jimmy's face was etched with concern, and Chloe felt mildly irritated that she was so hopeless at hiding her emotions.

"It's nothing, Jimmy – really. I'm fine – just all the attention the engagement has got in the press, it's all a bit overwhelming."

Inwardly Jimmy winced. No sooner had he recovered from his escape at the LuthorCorp building, not quite believing how his betrayals had gone undiscovered, then he had read in the Planet of Oliver and Chloe's engagement. The moment he first saw the headline was seared into his mind like some indelible mark, a constant source of pain. It was almost as if it was some sort of punishment for what he had done, a sick taunt not only for his treachery, but also for his cowardice. He could have killed Oliver that night in the LuthorCorp building – he'd held the gun in his hand, pointed it directly at his rival's head. But he'd hesitated, and now all was lost. Golden boy had won the day; the evil villain was locked away, and Prince Charming had got the girl. How it sickened him to think of Oliver's hands touching Chloe, _his Chloe_ – how had he allowed this to happen? Why had he been so weak? His hatred of Oliver had grown in intensity with every photo he'd seen of the happy couple in the press, to the point now where his loathing of the handsome billionaire was almost physical. And to look at Chloe now, sitting in front of him, so beautiful, yet so unattainable – it was too much for him to bear. But bear it he would, just as he would hide his true feelings, both about her and about Oliver. He needed to be near her, more than anything else in the world, and he could be patient; sooner or later there would be another chance to remove his rival from the scene, and next time there would be no hesitation. He'd get Oliver Queen out of Chloe's life for good.

"It must be difficult. Oliver's used to the press attention, but you – you're more used to being the one asking the questions."

"No, it's fine – really. Oliver has been so good to me, I couldn't have hoped for more support."

"Just as long he's not neglecting you – I see from the Planet he's been busy singlehandedly cleaning up the streets of Metropolis."

Chloe glanced around nervously. Jimmy's reference to Oliver's alter ego had been sufficiently obscure to hide its meaning, but she still felt uncomfortable when any mention of the Green Arrow was made in public; she'd seen Oliver in danger too many times for her to feel totally at ease.

"You know Oliver – never one to leave a job half done!" she said, trying to inject a note of lightness into her words.

"What is it, Chloe – there's something you're not telling me, isn't there?"

Chloe hesitated, but Jimmy's reassuring look helped her to overcome her doubts. She needed to share, to unload her worries, and who better than Jimmy Olsen?

"It's Oliver. He's.....he's finding it difficult to get over what happened."

"That's only to be expected, Chloe. Lex had him locked up in that cage for a long time – you can't expect him just to brush it off in a couple of weeks."

"He's not sleeping, Jimmy, and I'm worried about him. This last week he's hit the bottle every night – that can't be good, right?"

Jimmy allowed his brow to crease in concern as he looked across at Chloe's worried face. He reached across the table and gently took her hand in his, an apparent act of solidarity with a friend in need. Chloe smiled faintly, blissfully unaware of Jimmy's true thoughts at that moment.

_So the mighty Green Arrow isn't as tough as he thinks he is – what a tragedy! I guess Akuni n and Lex really messed up your head more than you thought, eh Oliver? _

"Have you talked to him about it?"

"I've tried, Jimmy – believe me I've tried. But he won't open up to me. I think he wants to, but something's stopping him. Stupid male pride, maybe – I don't know. But I want to help him, Jimmy, I really do. He looks so wrecked every morning, and he's pushing himself so hard – every night he's out there doing....well, you know... but in the state he's in he's going to make a mistake, and then...."

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay," said Jimmy, interrupting Chloe as her voice began to crack. "I'm sure he'll talk to you when he's ready. He's been through a lot – you can't rush these things, you know that."

"I guess so," she replied, recovering herself. "And he has promised to stay away from the drink - that's progress, isn't it?"

"There you go – it's going to be okay Chloe, I know it is."

Just then Jimmy's cell rang. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, his face showing a flicker of concern as he recognised the name of the person who had left him a message.

It was Nick Majors, small time pusher – and Jimmy's supplier. Oliver wasn't the only one who was seeking solace in substance abuse.

His face flushed with embarrassment, he quickly put his cell back in his pocket.

"I've got to go, Chloe – something's come up. Will you be okay?"

"I'll be fine, Jimmy – you go," replied Chloe, giving him a reassuring smile. And Jimmy..."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

The two of them smiled at each other, before Jimmy turned and made his way out onto the street.

Chloe was left alone with her thoughts. She sat staring into her half empty coffee cup, trying to convince herself that Jimmy was right – that it really was going to be okay. Oliver had promised to lay off the bottle, after all, but still she was worried. He was pushing himself too hard in his campaign against the drug barons of the city, and it would only take one moment of carelessness, one error of judgement.....

"Excuse me, miss, would you like to buy a teddy?"

A child's voice interrupted Chloe's train of thought. She turned to find a girl standing next to her, a small teddy bear clasped in her hand; to her side she carried a bag, filled with other toys.

"It's for charity – we're collecting money for St Catherine's orphanage."

Chloe hesitated. The kid had clearly been sent out to collect money because she looked cute, and she resented being emotionally manipulated in such an obvious way. She knew there were laws against such things, and she was surprised that a reputable cause like St Catherine's was resorting to such methods.

"Please buy one – they're only three dollars."

The child smiled an impossibly sweet smile at Chloe, and she relented, smiling at her own weakness as she reached into her bag to find the money.

"There you go," she said, taking the ten inch high teddy from the girl as she handed over the money.

"Thank-you!" said the girl, before she ran skipping from the shop, obviously overjoyed at the success of her latest sale.

Chloe stared at her unwanted purchase. It wasn't a bad looking teddy – quite cute, in fact. Barely giving it a second thought, she slipped it inside one of the carrier bags that contained her shopping from earlier in the day.

Around the corner, out of sight of the coffee shop, the girl was receiving a second payment – this one of a far more sizeable amount.

"There you go, kid – forty dollars, just as we agreed."

"Fifty – or else I'm gonna tell her all about you." Gone was the heart melting innocence of a minute before; the girl spoke with the toughness of someone who had spent too much time in the wrong neighbourhoods.

The man reluctantly handed over the extra ten dollars, watching as the girl then sauntered off down the alley. He then smiled – a sudden, broad, unsettling smile.

Winslow Schott was a happy man.

His plan to destroy Oliver Queen had at last begun.

* * *

So a short chapter, but an important one. Jimmy is back to being a nasty piece of work, and Toyman's plan has begun. It all means there's a lot of angst to come!

Thanks to those of you who have reviewed – it means a lot to me. Please do take the time to review, as without feedback it is really hard sometimes to keep writing.

Life is crazy at the moment, so no update next week – I'll try to post the next chapter in about two week's time.


	4. Chapter 4: Cuckoo in the Nest

**Chapter Four: Cuckoo in the Nest**

Jimmy felt uneasy as he turned into the alley. No matter how many times he came here – and it seemed as if he was coming here more and more frequently these days – he never felt comfortable. It was not just that this was a part of town he would not normally visit; the run-down housing, boarded up shops and suspicious scowls on people's faces gave the area an atmosphere of barely concealed menace. It was because with every visit he felt dirty, cheapened. He knew that what he was doing was wrong, and that every time he purchased the drugs his body craved he was slipping further and further into an addiction from which he would find it almost impossible to escape. But despite what his brain told him, he could not help himself; his physical need for his fix was now so powerful it overcame any rational argument he might care to put to himself. And that made him feel weak – just as his failure to kill Oliver when he had had the chance made him feel weak. Even as he approached his dealer his sense of self-loathing was almost palpable.

On hearing his approach Majors turned to meet him, acknowledging him with a nod as he brought a conversation on his cell to a quick conclusion. He was a tall man with a lean, pointed face, the designer clothes that he wore appearing incongruous amongst the trash cans and discarded fast-food packaging that littered the alley. His clothes did not seem to sit comfortably on him, as if they knew that their designer labels were being used to hide the truth about the man who wore them. Majors was a dealer, one of the most important in this part of the city – and no amount of dressing up could mask the fact that he was a parasite, leeching off the misfortune and despair of others.

"I got what you need, Olsen – but the price has gone up. I need double what you paid last time." Majors' voice seemed flatter than normal; usually he delighted in making Jimmy squirm, but today there was no sense in which he wanted to play games.

"Double! But you said..."

"Yeah, well forget what I said, okay? Since the Archer started to hit us prices have gone up. Laws of supply and demand, Olsen – so do you want it, or not?"

Reluctantly Jimmy reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, reflecting ruefully on how even here Oliver seemed to have the ability to ruin his life.

"Things are bad, Olsen, really bad," said Majors as he handed over the packet in return for Jimmy's money. "When that freak got Tollin, well, it's as if no one is safe anymore."

"What's going to happen?"

"No one knows for sure. Word is that the Syndicate is sending one of their big guns to Metropolis to sort out the Arrow. In the meantime they've put a price on his head – ten million dollars. Can you believe that? Ten million – he sure has got them rattled."

"They must want him bad."

"Yeah, they want him bad, and they'll get him – sooner or later they'll get him. All they need is a break – he can't stay lucky forever."

At that moment Majors' cell rang, and he turned and walked away, not wishing Jimmy to overhear his conversation.

"_He can't say lucky forever."_

Majors' words echoed in Jimmy's mind as he retraced his steps down the alley back towards the main street. Oliver was a lucky man, no one could deny that, but maybe his luck _was_ about to run out. He thought of his conversation with Chloe earlier in the day, and her fears that he was pushing himself too hard, and that he might make a mistake that could cost him his life. Perhaps the Green Arrow was about to run out of lives – all that was needed was for someone to help the process along a little......

* * *

It was late when Chloe finally got back to the penthouse, and as she stepped out of the elevator the place seemed deserted. She knew better, the glow emanating from Oliver's secret Green Arrow room telling her what she already knew, and half feared.

Oliver was gearing up for another patrol.

As she started to unpack her shopping the fears that had become her unwelcome companions in recent days began to re-emerge. She desperately wanted him to stay home, but knew that pleading with him would achieve nothing. He was on a mission, almost as obsessive as when he had been pursuing Lex and 33.1. She knew that he had to work it out of his system, and that in some way it was part of a necessary healing process after the agonies he had endured at the hands of Luthor. It was as if he needed to prove to himself and to the city that he was still a hero, and that he was still fit to wear the suit of the Green Arrow. All she could do was to be there for him, to offer him the support and love he needed to heal, but that didn't make the prospect of waiting anxiously for hours for his return from patrol any easier to bear.

"So has Watchtower given my credit cards a serious workout?"

Oliver's voice caused Chloe to turn around. Almost imperceptibly, she gasped; no matter how many times she saw him in the costume, her heart still missed a beat. He looked incredible, his tall and well shaped body displayed to perfection in the figure-hugging leather of the Green Arrow. _And that smile! _So effortless, so gorgeous – for a split second all her fears and anxieties melted away as once again she felt a flush of excitement. He was hers – how amazing was that? Oliver Queen, the most beautiful man in the world, was hers – it was a fairytale that she hoped would never end.

"I hope you spent lots of my money – I can't have Metropolis believing that Oliver Queen doesn't give his fiancé the very best of everything," said Oliver, walking towards her. His mood was playful, and it was if the scene that had greeted her that morning had never occurred. As he came close to her she placed her arms around him, allowing her fingers to dig into the supple leather and feel the hard muscles encased beneath. She placed her lips against his, and he responded; for a few blissful moments they allowed themselves to surrender to their passion, their deep love driving out all fears, nightmares and worries. They were lovers, and that was all that mattered – whatever problems they faced, their love would overcome them all.

"So what's this?" said Oliver when at last their lips parted, reaching across and picking up the teddy bear that Chloe had bought earlier in the day.

"Just some bear I bought – a girl was selling them on behalf of St Catherine's orphanage. Kinda cute, don't you think?"

Oliver held it in front of him, as if he were examining it intently.

"Yeah, it's cute," he said finally, before placing it back on the table. "But not as cute as you."

The two then kissed again, the bear sitting as a silent witness to their need for each other.

* * *

Across the city a figure sat staring at a computer screen, open mouthed. On the floor next to him lay the mug that had just fallen from his hand, its contents flowing across the floor. This didn't matter to Winslow Schott, for what he had just seen made such concerns seem utterly inconsequential.

He checked the signal – everything was in order. The bear was working exactly as he had designed it to, its eyes giving him a live feed into the home of Oliver Queen. But what he had just seen.....surely it couldn't be true?

Hardly believing the evidence of his own eyes, he played the recording of what he had witnessed once more, freezing it at the moment when Oliver held the bear in his hand. There could be no denying it – the costume was unmistakable.

The eyes that stared back at him were not just the eyes of Oliver Queen. They were the eyes of the Green Arrow.

Schott could barely contain himself. His body began to shake, and then he began to laugh – a wild, uncontrollable laugh.

_Oliver, Oliver.... What have you been hiding from me! You – the Green Arrow! How delicious, how magnificently delicious! What games we shall have now, my friend, what games! And to think – I will go down in history as the man who killed the Emerald Archer!_

* * *

Another short chapter - sorry, but life is crazy at the moment, and I've not been feeling great. Still, I hope you enjoyed it - double trouble for our hero!

I hope to be able to write a lot more soon, when life calms down a bit. I can't wait for Smallville to come back in January - I'm so excited now that Oliver is back as Green Arrow!

Thanks to those who have reviewed - it means a lot! My enthusiasm for writing is a bit up and down at the moment, and there was a point when I thought I might discontinue this story. Reviews keep me inspired, so please post one if you can!


	5. Chapter 5: An Unwelcome Gift

**Chapter Five: An Unwelcome Gift**

Oliver felt good as he poured himself a glass of juice, a hint of a smile dancing on his lips. He'd just completed his morning workout in the home made gym that dominated one side of his large, open plan penthouse, and he could still feel the adrenalin pumping through his body. He'd pushed his muscles to their very limit, as he always did; the knowledge that he did not enjoy the powers of Clark and the others always made him strive for the peak of physical fitness. Sweat glistened on his well toned arms and torso, naked to the air, and he could almost feel himself glowing with health and vitality. It was not this, however, that was the cause of his happiness that morning. Instead it was the knowledge that for the first time in he didn't know how long he'd managed to sleep right through the night. He'd dreamt, he knew that – he even suspected that he'd had _that_ dream that had so haunted him these weeks past – but for once they had not caused him to wake up in the middle of the night, a cold clamminess driving him from Chloe's side to seek solace in a bottle.

Could it be that at last his mental wounds were healing? He hardly dared to hope, but something within him made him feel as if a corner had been turned. Chloe had been right about the drink, of course – it had been nothing more than a temporary escape from his problems. He felt an almost childlike sense of pride that for three days now he'd managed to stay true to his word, and the bottle of scotch had remained firmly locked away in the drinks cabinet. He so wanted to make her happy, and at the same time he felt an immense sense of gratitude that now, as he recovered from the most terrible ordeal of his life, he had her by his side. How lucky could a man get? Chloe's love was so unconditional, so profound, there were times he felt unworthy. She seemed to know him even better than he knew himself; more than that, she had the ability to save him from himself. If she hadn't been here he knew that he would have carried on drinking, gradually sinking further and further into the weakness and misery of addiction. Instead she had saved him, placed him back on the path to recovery. She was his very own angel of mercy, and yet she wanted nothing in return, except his love. She did not demand that he tell her everything about what he'd suffered – she knew that he would tell her in his own time, and that the process of healing could not be rushed. She was there for him, and whatever he needed she gave to him; it was the simplicity of a love so profound it could never be put into words. He was blessed indeed – blessed to be loved by Chloe Sullivan.

He glanced down at the copy of the "Planet" that lay on the table. Once more the Green Arrow dominated the front page:

_ARROW STRIKES AGAIN: BIGGEST DRUGS SEIZURE TO DATE_

Once again he found himself smiling. The night before last he'd hit another shipment, and it had been his biggest yet; five goons and a record breaking haul of cocaine. At this rate he'd break the Syndicate's operation in Metropolis in a couple of weeks. Part of him expected trouble – organised crime is never likely just to run up the white flag and surrender, after all – but at that moment he felt invulnerable. Yes, he was tired, more tired than he cared to admit; he knew that Chloe worried that exhaustion would cause him to make a mistake. But success gave him such a buzz, it seemed that when he was on patrol his feelings of tiredness just fell away. After so long a prisoner, it felt great to be doing something, to be making a difference once more. The Green Arrow was back, Chloe was by his side, and at last the scars of his ordeal were starting to fade – for Oliver Queen, the world hadn't looked so good in quite a long time.

At that moment a buzzer sounded, indicating that someone was at the foot of the elevator shaft. Oliver walked over to the elevator, pressing a button on a pad by the side of the grille so that he could talk to whoever was waiting thirty floors below.

"Yes?"

"Is that Mr Oliver Queen?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"Package for you, Mr Queen."

"Okay, I'll be right down."

A couple of minutes later and Oliver stepped out of the elevator back into his apartment, clutching a package about the size of a shoe box. It appeared innocuous enough, a plain box with his name and address appearing neatly on a word processed label. The post mark indicated it had been posted within Metropolis, and Oliver wasted no time in finding a knife to cut through the tape that had been wrapped carefully around its edges, sealing the contents securely inside. He wasn't expecting a parcel, and part of him suspected that it might have been sent by Chloe. A gift, perhaps, or some sort of joke.

What he found inside at first seemed to confirm Oliver's suspicion that Chloe or one of the guys had sent him the unexpected package. For there, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, was a doll, dressed in the costume of the Green Arrow. At first sight Oliver felt amused – clearly one of his friends thought that his new found fame as the hero of Metropolis meant that he warranted his very own action figure. But as he removed the figure from the box a sudden feeling of unease crept over him. This was no ordinary doll; on closer examination Oliver found that the costume it was wearing was an exact replica of his own. The stitching, the panels in the tunic, the design of the arm armor, the shade of green in the leathers – everything was perfect, as if his own costume had been miniaturised. It was obvious that hours of work had gone into making this, hours of patient labor and attention to detail. Was this really Chloe's work? Or AC's? Something didn't feel right.....

His eyes were suddenly caught by a note that lay at the bottom of the box, previously hidden by the figure itself. On it were just four words, like the address label carefully printed out in bold capitals.

_PULL DOWN MY HOOD_

Oliver frowned, his earlier amusement now replaced by genuine concern. There was something very wrong about all this, but he couldn't yet put his finger on exactly what it was. Cautiously, he reached up to the figure's hood, carefully pulling it back.....

The sight that greeted him caused his heart to miss a beat. There, stuck where he expected to find the plastic features of some generic action figure, was a picture of himself, cut from a magazine. In itself it appeared unsettling, but what made Oliver's blood run cold was what was scrawled across the picture's forehead, in deep blood-red ink:

_Secret's Out, Liar_

He knew at that moment for sure – this was no gift sent to him by Chloe, or one of the guys. This had been sent by someone else, someone who seemed to know too much...

"_I know who you are, Oliver Queen."_

Oliver almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of the heavily distorted voice which emanated from the figure. Fascinated and horrified at the same time, he stared at the doll as it continued to deliver its pre-recorded message.

"_The pretty boy billionaire wants to be a hero, does he? Well your secret is out, Mr Queen – and now you will pay for your crimes. The Green Arrow will do my bidding – or I will expose you for who you really are. Do you want that, Mr Queen? Do you want the world to know the truth about your double life? I didn't think so. Wait for instructions, hero boy – our game is only just beginning."_

Silence filled the penthouse when at last the doll completed its chilling message. Oliver stood rooted to the spot; his heart pumped furiously in his chest, and he could feel his gut twisting itself into a knot as the full enormity of what he had just heard began to sink in.

_Someone knew his secret!_

His mind raced, countless possibilities swirling in his head. Who was behind this? Lex – had Lex escaped? No, that was not possible – AC was still on guard at the secret facility where his old enemy was being held, and he would have got in touch had something happened. But if not Lex, then who? It couldn't be any of the guards from the LuthorCorp building – their memories had all been wiped when they had made their escape. Carter? No – he was dead. Akunin...No, surely it couldn't be, could it? When he'd left her she'd been as good as dead – there was no way she could have survived. And yet.....The thought that perhaps the woman who had robbed him of his self-respect might still be alive, still able to threaten him and all he loved, made him feel physically sick. He tried to think clearly, to reassure himself that it couldn't be her, but the doubt would not go away – he could feel it gnawing away inside him, devouring all the hoped for healing that he had felt just minutes before. Even if was not Akunin, he knew he was in serious danger. What did this person want? Was he about to be blackmailed? How did they find out about his secret identity? What was this game that he mentioned? Questions, questions, questions – and Oliver knew only too well that at that point, he did not have a single answer.

"And how's my hero today, then?"

Chloe's voice, sounding from the doorway to the bedroom behind him. Without thinking Oliver thrust the doll back inside its box, closing the lid down a split second before he felt her warm hands encircle his waist.

"What's that? Not a gift from a secret admirer, I hope," she said, spying the box in his hand.

"This? Oh, it's just something for the gym I've ordered," replied Oliver, placing the box on a nearby table and turning to face Chloe, hoping to distract her attention away from its contents.

"Something for the gym? Do you ever stop thinking of ways to tone that body of yours?" she said playfully, pulling him close to her. As she did so she could feel the tension in his muscles; whilst he could hide his fears in his face, his body now betrayed him.

"Oliver, you're so tense! What's wrong? Did you hurt yourself in your workout?"

"I'm fine," said Oliver, seeking to reassure her and throw her off the scent. "Now enough talking – all that exercise has given me an appetite."

He then kissed her, their mouths locking together with the ease of lovers whose intimacy was as natural as the air. But as they surrendered to their need for each other one of them could not help but think of what lay in the box a foot or so away, and all it might mean for the future.

* * *

And all the time they were being watched, the eyes of the bear that still sat on the table where Chloe had left it silently recording every move. Schott had seen everything, and as he sat watching the two lovers kiss he could barely contain himself. The second phase of his plan was complete – now the real fun could begin.

"_Did my little gift give you a shock, Mr Queen?" _he said to himself, glued to the images that unfolded before him._ " I am sorry – truly I am. But don't be sad – at least you can seek solace in the arms of your beautiful fiancé. Enjoy her while you can, Oliver – enjoy her while you can! Soon I'll be experiencing the delights of Miss Sullivan's company – and then what games we'll have!"_

* * *

Well, we couldn't have Ollie untroubled for too long, could we? Angst - you know you love it! Toyman is going to put our lovers through all sorts of trouble in this story, and then there is what Jimmy's got in store - more on that next chapter. Hope you enjoyed this one - I liked the idea of a voodoo-like Green Arrow doll, and it really seemed to fit Toyman's character.

Thanks for reading, and of course a huge thankyou to you wonderful reviewers out there. I will never tire of saying this - without your feedback I would not write, so thanks so much for inspiring me! Please do review if you can - it means so much!

Next update in a week - I'm going to have more time to write in the next month, so chapters may get longer.


	6. Chapter 6: Running Out of Luck

**Chapter Six: Running Out of Luck**

Jimmy's heart pumped a little harder in his chest as he stepped from the elevator into Oliver's apartment. It was empty, of course – he'd watched Oliver leave from his vantage point across the street minutes earlier, and he knew that Chloe had left a good hour before. There was no reason to be nervous, as neither was likely to back in the next few minutes, and a few minutes was all he needed to get what he had come for. Still he felt nervous, however; the nature of his mission meant that until it was done, he could not rest easy.

As he walked purposefully towards Oliver's secret Green Arrow room he tried to stay calm, even as the sound of his heartbeat seemed to pound ever louder in his head. What was the worst that could happen, after all? If Oliver or Chloe did return unexpectedly he had his excuse ready to hand, and what reason would they have to doubt him? He was part of the team now, after all – a trusted friend of the Justice League. He could come and go from Oliver's base of operations as he pleased, and he knew every secret code, every confidential protocol. A hint of a smile crossed his lips at the thought of how much he knew of the world that Oliver had created. _If only you knew_, he said to himself, _if only you knew..._

With the confidence of a man who knew what he was doing, Jimmy quickly entered the access code that gave him entry to the secret world of Oliver's alter ego. Without hesitation he took a seat in front of one of the computers that lined one side of the chamber, typing with a nervous energy that matched his state of mind. He knew what he was looking for, and it didn't take him long to find it.

Oliver was meticulous about keeping records, and Jimmy soon found himself staring at the document he wanted to see. There, listed in front of him, were all the missions of the Green Arrow undertaken during the last three weeks, including locations, sources of intelligence and outcomes, including numbers of arrests and seizures of drugs. When listed like this it was clear to Jimmy why the Syndicate had put such a high price on Oliver's head; another couple of weeks and their operation would clearly be finished. But this thought did not delay him long, because his eyes were quickly drawn to the bottom of the page, and another location, written against today's date.

_Richmond Warehouse, Clayton: 2345_

Jimmy's heart almost leapt into his throat. _Today!_ He hadn't expected that – somehow he'd thought there would be time before he'd have to make his call, a few days for him to gather his thoughts and prepare himself mentally for the act of betrayal he knew must come. But there was to be no time for thinking – the message on the screen was clear. Tonight, just before midnight, the Green Arrow was going to hit another of the Syndicate's operations. However, this time they would know he was coming....

Jimmy had seen enough. Quickly he logged off the computer, before retracing his steps towards the elevator. Three minutes later and he found himself standing in the alley opposite Oliver's building, exactly where he had watched the young billionaire leave just over fifteen minutes before.

He expected his hand to tremble when he dialled the number that Majors had given him, but to his surprise it didn't. There had been too much delay, too many missed opportunities, for Jimmy to hesitate now; his mind was settled. He wanted Chloe more than anything else in the world, but for as long as Oliver lived she would never look at him as anything other than a friend. Oliver had to be removed from Chloe's life, and if that meant he had to die then so be it; there was a sense of relief in Jimmy's mind as he listened to the ringing tone that would preface the most important call of his life.

At last there was the sound of a voice at the other end of the line.

"_Hello?"_

"Let me speak to Mr Moretti," said Jimmy, surprising himself with the confidence he could hear in his voice.

"_Who is this?_"

"Just tell Moretti I've got information he's gonna want to hear, information about the Green Arrow."

"_Who is this? How'd you get this number?"_

"Are you gonna tell him I've got the information he wants, or am I gonna hang up?"

There was a pause, the sound of voices in the background. Then Jimmy heard a new voice on the other end of the line, a voice which told him that his playing hardball had paid off.

"_This is Moretti. Who am I speaking to?"_

"Never mind that, Mr Moretti. I hear you want the Green Arrow pretty bad – how would you feel if I was to tell you exactly when and where he was going to hit you next?"

"_I'd say I was interested – very interested indeed."_

* * *

Oliver crouched low on the rooftop of the warehouse, silently watching the activity taking place on the ground below. Three men had just appeared from inside the building, and now they stood expectantly, scanning the empty road in front of them. Oliver glanced at his watch, its luminous display telling him that there were just two minutes before the anticipated drop-off. If his source was right – and he'd not been wrong yet – then very soon the Syndicate's latest shipment of death and misery would appear at the top of the road, ready for the Green Arrow to strike yet another nail into the coffin of organised crime in the city.

As he waited Oliver's mind turned once more to the doll whose arrival had left him so shaken that morning. He'd thought of nothing else all day, and it was a relief to him that business had kept him apart from Chloe; he knew that she would have soon guessed something was wrong, and the journalist in her would not have given up until she had got it out of him. Part of him wondered whether he should tell her, but his instincts still told him no – it would only worry her, make her more protective of him, and he didn't want that. He needed to figure it out on his own, and once he had a handle on it – a lead that maybe would identify the mystery sender – well, then he would tell her. Not that he had any leads, of course – he'd wracked his mind all day to work out who might be behind it, but had come up a blank. He'd checked out the whereabouts of all those whose minds had been wiped at the LuthorCorp building, and all were accounted for; he'd even got in touch with AC to check that Lex was still safely locked up in the facility. He'd found nothing to give him even a hint as to who his mystery tormentor might be, and after a day of searching and coming up with nothing, he'd reached the disturbing conclusion that all he could do was wait. If the mystery man – or woman – had wanted to expose him then they would have done so by now. Clearly they had a different agenda, an agenda which involved a "game" of some sort; the next move was theirs, and when they made it, he'd be ready.

After the anxiety and dead ends of the day it had felt good to slip into the leathers of his costume as night came, assuming once more the persona of his alter ego. The Green Arrow was a part of him now; like his love for Chloe, it gave his existence meaning, substance. He knew he didn't have the powers of Clark or the others, and that was what made his achievements of the last few weeks so important to him. _He_ was sweeping the streets of Metropolis clean – not Clark, not AC, not Victor. He was doing this on his own, and at some level he felt that validated his position as leader of the group he had created. Inside himself he felt he had to prove something, especially after all he had suffered at the hands of Lex. It was as if he needed to do this on his own to reclaim his position as leader of the Justice League - not from the others, but from his own sense of insecurity and weakness.

"_There's a car approaching your position – you should be able to see it any second."_

Chloe's voice sounded in his ComLink, the ever-present Watchtower acting once more as his eyes and ears. Oliver looked to his left, just in time to see the lights of a car turn into the road.

"I see it, Watchtower – looks like a small delivery tonight."

"_Happy hunting, Arrow – Watchtower Out."_

Oliver felt a little disappointed as the car pulled up in front of the warehouse. He'd hoped for a big haul of drugs, one to rival his most recent seizure, but this was something different. As he watched two men get out of the car and move round to the trunk, he consoled himself with the thought that a bust was still a bust – and netting five goons in the process would again make the Syndicate choke on its breakfast the following morning.

The two men retrieved a small crate from the trunk, before placing it on the ground in front of the other three men. Words were then exchanged in hushed voices, too low to be audible from Oliver's vantage point. It was time to rain on their parade – it was time to announce his presence.

"Hey guys – didn't anyone tell you these streets are dangerous after dark? You never know who you might run into."

Oliver's voice caused all five men to spin round and look upwards. There they saw the unmistakable silhouette of the Green Arrow, bow in hand; before they had time to fire off even a single shot Oliver had downed three of them with expertly aimed arrows to the shoulders and legs. The sound of gunfire then filled the air, as the two remaining men tried to hit their attacker by shooting wildly in his direction. Their efforts were hopeless; no sooner had they begun firing into the sky when Oliver had jumped, cat –like, down from his perch, rolling across the ground and then leaping up to send one of the men flying with a carefully executed roundhouse kick to the head. The last remaining goon had seen enough; he turned and ran towards the warehouse door, only to be brought down by a well placed arrow to his back.

It was all over in a matter of seconds, Oliver barely breaking into a sweat. He stood for a moment, surveying his handiwork; all the men who lay around him appeared unconscious, and were clearly no longer a threat. _Another job well done_, he thought to himself, before his eyes fell upon the small crate that still stood on the ground where the men had left it. Intrigued as to its contents, Oliver walked over to it. It appeared nondescript enough, and certainly nothing to give Oliver reason to hesitate before he lifted the lid....

Oliver just had time to register the small electronic device nestling in some straw before there was a blinding flash of light, and a sound so deafening his ears felt as if they were about to explode.....

The next thing Oliver knew he was lying on the ground, his back against the warehouse wall. Pain seemed to throb from every muscle in his body, and his ears were filled with what felt like the sound of a thousand bells all screaming simultaneously. His head was swimming, and for a moment he had no comprehension of where he was, let alone what had happened. Then, slowly, the fog in his mind began to clear. He remembered the crate, the device – _a bomb! _There had been an explosion – it must have been triggered when he'd opened the crate. But why were they moving a bomb? It made no sense, unless... _unless it was meant for him!_ That thought caused Oliver's eyes to snap open. He tried to focus, but it was impossible – everything was like a blur. Instinctively realising that he didn't have much time, he tried to get up, but he couldn't – the shock of the explosion had rendered him temporarily helpless. His hand reached out, vainly searching for some means of defence – perhaps his bow had landed somewhere nearby. He could find nothing – but he could now hear the sound of a car's doors being opened somewhere nearby, and heavy feet running towards him....

"He's alive, Mr Moretti," said a voice. Oliver looked up, his vision now clearing sufficiently for him to find himself staring into the barrel of a pistol, aimed directly at his head.

"Good – I was rather hoping he would be." Oliver turned his head slightly to find a second man staring down at him, a look of satisfaction on his face.

"You know you've cost us a lot of money, Green Arrow – a lot of money indeed," continued the man as he pulled a gun from inside his jacket. "But you knew your one man crusade couldn't last forever, didn't you? Sooner or later we were always going to catch up with you."

Oliver's eyes widened as the man levelled his gun at Oliver's head and placed his finger on the trigger.

"Wait," he gasped, desperately trying to buy himself some time. "Don't you want to know who I am?"

"I want you dead, freak – simple as that. Now say your prayers, leather boy – time to die."

* * *

Chloe sat at the computer terminal, her hands shaking as she tried to re-establish the ComLink with Oliver. She knew something had gone terribly wrong – there had been an incredible sound, and then the line had gone dead. On her display she could see Oliver's position marked on a map, his tracking device unmoving. There had been an explosion, she'd guessed that – at first she thought it might have been accidental, but the appearance of a second car confirmed her fears. Oliver had walked into a trap, and now he was a sitting duck, enemies closing in. She needed to get through to him, to warn him – if it wasn't already too late.

"Arrow, do you read me? Arrow, come in! Hostiles are approaching your position – you need to get out of there!"

Seconds seemed like minutes as Chloe's agonised pleas were met with the sound of static, and she could only watch helplessly as two dots on the map moved inexorably towards Oliver's position, until they appeared almost on top of him. Time was running out, and still there was no sign of life from Oliver....

Then, miraculously, the sound of the static cleared. She had restored the ComLink!

"Arrow, do you read me? Arrow, answer me!"

Silence - and then the sickening sound of a single gunshot.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed that - nothing like some evil Jimmy, some Green Arrow action, and then Oliver facing certain death!

Thanks to Blaker, LadyLemons and Modscho for reviewing the last chapter - I appreciate it so much! Far fewer people seem to want to review anymore, and that is a bit depressing. Please post a review if you can - you would really make me very happy if you did, and a bit of encouragement will help me to keep going!


	7. Chapter 7: From Bad To

**Chapter Seven: From Bad To.......**

Oliver lay motionless on the ground, powerless to do anything to avert the bullet that in a matter of seconds would shatter his skull and end his life. Was this really it? He had cheated death so many times, it somehow didn't seem possible that it would all end here, now, like this. And yet there appeared to be no possibility of escape; this time neither his wits nor his physical strength could save him. With Lex he could always rely on the man's desire to savour his victory over his foe to buy him a little time, his twisted need to prolong Oliver's agony giving him the chance to survive, to fight another day. The man who stood before him now, however, had no such need for elaborate revenge; he was a killer, a man employed to get rid of problems with clinical efficiency. There were to be no speeches, no mind games – just a bullet straight between the eyes.

He saw Moretti's finger tighten on the trigger, his body tensing at what appeared now to be the inevitable. Wasn't this supposed to be the moment when his whole life flashed before his eyes? It didn't – instead in his mind's eye he could see only Chloe's face, smiling that smile that had captured his heart so completely. In the split second before Oliver heard the gunshot he achieved a serenity in the face of death that only love could bring. She was with him – that was enough.

A shot – deafening, close, final.

Oliver, his eyes closed and ready for the end, waited.

Nothing.

He felt nothing. That is, he felt exactly as he had done before the shot was fired. But seconds had passed – what was happening? Was this death? Of course not – he dismissed the thought as soon as it entered his head. The bullet had not hit its target – _he was still alive! _But why? Moretti couldn't have missed – he was shooting at almost point blank range. So had he missed deliberately? Was this some kind of warning – maybe they did want him alive after all. Unable to contain himself any longer, cautiously he opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was Moretti, only now he wasn't towering over him, gun in hand – instead he lay on the ground a few feet away, unmoving, his gun laying a foot or so away from where he had fell. The other man also lay unconscious on the ground, but what really caught his attention was the bullet that lay a few inches from his own hand, its tip flattened as if it had hit not flesh, but an armor plated shield.

"They say that the bullet that kills you has your name on it – I guess that one must be blank."

Oliver turned his head in the direction of a voice that was so familiar, and which by its presence explained everything.

"Clark!"

The two heroes stared at one another, the face of one full of relief mixed with gratitude, the other smiling reassuringly at his older friend. Clark might not yet have been a full member of Oliver's team, but the bond of brotherhood between the two men was obvious; they understood each other, and, as had been the case so many times before, one had come to the rescue of the other.

Clark offered his hand to Oliver, who took it, before pulling himself painfully to his feet. He grimaced in pain as he stretched his back, the impact of the explosion all too obviously taking its toll.

"Are you okay?" asked Clark, his brow furrowed in concern.

"Just some bruises – I'll be fine," replied Oliver, failing to convince his friend. "Thanks, Clark – I owe you one."

"We're even," said Clark. "I owed you from when you pulled me clear of that Kryptonite when we busted Bart out of the Ridge Facility – remember?"

"Yeah, I remember. I guess you're right – we are even." Oliver paused, a question forming in his mind as he stretched yet another muscle to ascertain the extent of the damage his body had sustained. "So how did you know I was in trouble? I know you're never going to need a hearing aid, Clark, but there must be a limit to that super-hearing of yours."

"My powers didn't come into it. Chloe told me you might need some help, so I was keeping an eye on you."

As soon as Clark said those words he realised he'd made a mistake. Oliver's face clouded slightly, a trace of irritation now mixing with the pain that had been there previously.

"So Chloe told you to spy on me."

It was a statement, rather than a question, but it put Clark on the defensive.

"Not spy, Oliver. She was worried about you, that's all – said you'd been pushing things too hard."

Oliver said nothing, but instead limped over to where his bow lay, bending down with some difficulty to retrieve it.

"_What's happening? Arrow, come in please! Boy Scout, are you reading me?"_

Chloe's voice crackled through the earpieces of both men. Clark glanced at Oliver, waiting for him to respond; Oliver said nothing, but simply stared at his bow, fingering the mechanism as if he were too busy to answer.

"This is Boy Scout, Watchtower, reading you loud and clear."

"_Thank God! Clar..Boy Scout, what's happening? I heard a shot – is Arrow okay?"_

"Arrow's fine – he's got some cuts and bruises, but he'll be okay. Better call the police – tell them there are five men down here who need picking up. Arrow and I are on our way back."

* * *

"The doctor says you'll be fine – you just need to rest up in bed for a day or so," said Chloe as she walked into the bedroom she now shared with Oliver. Moments before she'd said goodbye to Dr Vincent, Oliver's personal physician; he'd patched up Oliver countless times before after Green Arrow missions, and was a man who knew better than to ask too many questions. How many times had a host of cuts and bruises been explained away with the excuse of extreme sports injuries? The line was wearing thin, but given what Oliver was paying him, Vincent knew when to keep quiet.

"And Clark – is he still here?" asked Oliver, sitting upright in bed. A bandage covered a wound to his left shoulder, and there was evidence of treatment to some smaller cuts to his chest and above his left eye. Given the power of the explosion, he had been lucky to get away so lightly – and they both knew it.

"He had to go – seems like one of the guys you took out got away before the cops showed up," replied Chloe, perching herself on the edge of the bed and smiling. Instinctively she reached out to touch Oliver's hair, a gesture of intimacy and reassurance. The response she got was not what she expected; instead of the normal warm grin she saw only the slightest of smiles, born more of habit than conviction. Something was wrong, she could see that – and it wasn't simply the pain caused by his physical wounds.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her face darkening slightly with concern.

There was a pause, Oliver clearly deciding whether or not to say what was on his mind.

"Is it Clark?" Chloe's simple question served to break the ice; she suspected that this was what was eating him, and there seemed no point in allowing the issue to fester unresolved.

"Why didn't you tell me, Chloe – why didn't you tell me that you were having Clark spy on me?"

Chloe winced inside. The use of the word spy was so loaded with meaning; it hinted at deceit, double dealing, even lying. Oliver had asked his question quietly, without any hint of anger, but his use of that word showed he was smarting inside.

"I didn't have Clark spy on you – I just said I was worried about you, and he offered to help. You've been pushing yourself so hard this last few weeks, I was scared that maybe..."

"Maybe I couldn't look after myself?"

"Well I was right, wasn't I? If Clark hadn't been there I'd be taking a trip down the morgue right now to identify your body." Tears started to well up in her eyes, the unspoken fears and anxieties of the last few weeks finally finding their outlet. Oliver's heart swelled as he saw the obvious distress she was in; instantly he felt regret, regret that he'd allowed his own insecurities and pride to come between him and the woman he loved.

"Chloe, I'm sorry..." he said, reaching out and taking her hand.

"It's okay, I'm fine," she said, wiping away the tears that had started to run down her cheeks. "Now you get some rest, do you hear? I've got to go out for a few hours, but I'll be back later this afternoon."

She then got up and made for the door. Oliver, realising his mistake, made to call after her, but it was too late; by the time her name had formed on his lips she was gone.

He slumped back in his bed, a picture of misery. She'd saved his life, but he'd been too foolish to acknowledge that. Instead his own vanity and desire to prove himself the equal of his friends had caused him to exchange his first cross words with Chloe.

Two mistakes in one day. Could things get any worse?

* * *

For the second time in as many days Jimmy stepped from the elevator into Oliver's apartment. Once again he was on a mission, but this one was born of the need for self-preservation more than any evil intent; having heard of Oliver's survival just an hour or so before, he had become acutely aware of the need to eliminate any incriminating trail that might lead to him. In her call Chloe had said nothing about Oliver suspecting his enemies had been tipped off, but he couldn't afford to take any chances. The computer that he had used to find the information about where the Green Arrow would strike next would contain a record of him logging on, and if that was found it might arouse suspicions, if not from Oliver or Chloe, then certainly from Bart; Jimmy suspected that the teenager had never fully accepted his excuses for how he had behaved during Akunin's raid on the penthouse during Oliver's imprisonment. He needed to delete that record of him accessing the computer – a relatively simple task, but one that he felt could not wait.

He stood still for a moment, listening intently for any sign of movement from the bedroom off to his right. Chloe had told him that Oliver had been injured, and that he was under doctor's orders to stay in bed, but the thought that the man whose death he had tried to engineer just hours earlier was no more than a few feet away made his heart beat faster in his chest. He had his excuses ready of course, just in case Oliver should emerge and find him in the penthouse. Chloe had told him what had happened, and naturally he'd come round to see how Oliver was – what could be more natural than one friend coming to the aid of another? There was no sound from the direction of the bedroom, but Jimmy continued to stand stock still, eager to be as certain as he could that his visit to the secret Green Arrow room would not be disturbed. As he stood there he thought back to the call he'd taken from Chloe an hour earlier. He'd been waiting for a call all night, the knowledge of what he had done and its expected outcome keeping him awake. He'd rehearsed his lines over and over again as he'd waited; his shock at hearing of Oliver's death, his sympathy for Chloe in her time of grief, the words of solace he would offer as her greatest friend. He had been ready to rush to her side, to take her in his arms and comfort her even before Oliver's body had gone cold. That script had had to be thrown away when Chloe's call finally came, the expected despair replaced with relief. She'd fallen over her words as she'd told of Oliver's latest escape from certain death, her joy almost tangible down the line. Had he hidden his disappointment from her in his replies? The feelings of anger and rage that momentarily had swirled dangerously within him as he realised that yet again his attempt to be rid of the handsome billionaire had failed? Those feelings had, of course, quickly given way to the fear of discovery, and it was that fear which had driven him to Oliver's penthouse.

At last satisfied that Oliver was not about to emerge from his bedroom, Jimmy moved swiftly over to the door to the Green Arrow chamber, drawing it back almost without making a sound. It took him only just over a minute to delete all evidence of his guilt, ironically making use of a technique taught to him by Victor, before he was exiting the chamber, closing the door as silently as he had opened it.

The most risky part of his mission complete, Jimmy could feel himself starting to relax. He started to make towards the elevator, before coming to halt next to the counter that stood next to Oliver's open plan kitchen. There, standing next to a jug of water, was what looked like a medicine bottle, presumably left by the doctor who Chloe had said had advised Oliver to rest. Jimmy stood for a moment, staring at it, an idea quickly forming in his mind. Oliver might have survived his brush with death, but maybe he could make the path to recovery a little more uncomfortable for the mighty Green Arrow than anyone was expecting....

Grabbing some kitchen towel so that he would not leave any fingerprints on the bottle, Jimmy carefully undid the top of the jar. He felt a frisson of excitement at what he found inside – four white pills, the exact shape and size that he'd hoped they'd be. He tipped them into his hand, before slipping them inside his jacket pocket. Pausing for a split second to check there were no signs of life coming from the bedroom, he then pulled out a small plastic bag from the one of the pockets in his jeans. Inside were twenty or so pills that looked identical to Oliver's medication, but these were no medicine; instead these were the drugs that he'd purchased from Majors a couple of days earlier. He'd paid a lot for them, but as he popped four of them into Oliver's medicine bottle he wasn't thinking of the money he was losing. Instead he was wondering how the squeaky clean Oliver Queen would cope with his first experience of the drugs his alter ego seemed so determined to drive from the city. Would he have a good trip? Jimmy hoped not – he hoped that, as with so many first time users, Oliver would experience the hallucinations and nightmares that so often accompanied the first hit. Sure, they'd figure it out eventually, but who would get the blame for Oliver's encounter with the Syndicate's wares? Not him. Most likely the doctor would carry the can, and who would believe his protestations of innocence? Jimmy's smile twisted into a smirk as he screwed the lid back on the bottle – looked like Oliver Queen would be looking for a new doctor in a couple of day's time.

Pausing to check that he'd left everything as he'd found it, Jimmy turned and made his way to the elevator. As he closed the grille and pressed the button to descend, he glanced one last time across to the bedroom where Oliver presumably lay sleeping.

_Sleep well, Oliver,_ he thought to himself, _Because the next time you sleep, you're going to have nightmares like you've never had before!_

* * *

Oliver walked dejectedly from his bedroom into the large open plan living area of the penthouse. His body ached from the wounds he had sustained in the explosion, but that he could cope with; it was the knowledge that he'd hurt Chloe that really troubled him. How could he have been so stupid? It was clear that she was worried sick about him, but still she stood by him, uncomplaining and unfailingly supportive of all that he did. That was real love, unconditional and endlessly patient, and how did he repay her? By being a jackass. He'd allowed his pride to cloud his judgement, and as a result he'd hurt the one person in the world who meant more to him than any other.

He glanced at the clock, which told him that two hours had passed since Chloe had left. He'd tried to sleep, but had largely been unsuccessful; the memory of how a few careless words had caused such hurt would not let him rest. He felt angry – angry at himself, at his own weakness, at how he could not shake off the effects of his captivity in Lex's prison. That was where all of this came from, of course - his sense of inadequacy, his need to prove himself. Would he ever be free of it, or was Akunin right, was he really destined to live in the shadow of his ordeal forever? He didn't know, but at that moment he was suddenly seized with an overwhelming need to escape from everything, from the pain, the errors of judgement, the haunting memories of those long days of humiliation and degradation. Almost without thinking he made for the drinks cabinet, taking a bottle of scotch and pouring himself a large glass as he walked over towards the couch.

He was about to down the glass in one, seeking sanctuary in the oblivion of drunkenness, when he stopped. A photograph of Chloe which stood on the coffee table had caught his eye, her smiling face acting as a reminder of the promise he had given her days earlier. _What am I doing? _he thought to himself, looking down at the glass in his hand. _Isn't it enough I've hurt her once today, that I should then go and break my word? _Disgusted with himself, he set the glass and bottle down on the table, resolved that in this at least, he would honor the woman he loved; he would not let her down, not now, not like this.

A twinge of pain from his back reminded him that it was about time for him to take his medication, and he took the couple of paces necessary to reach the kitchen counter. Suspecting nothing, he poured himself a glass of water, and swallowed one of the pills that the doctor had left for him......

For a few seconds Oliver felt nothing unusual, and he walked back in the direction of the couch. Then suddenly his head began to swim; the room seemed to start spinning around him, and he found it impossible to focus. He could feel his legs going from beneath him, and shot out a hand to break his fall; as he managed to slump onto the couch he sent the glass of scotch flying onto the floor.

"Chloe!" he gasped desperately as the room continued to spin in front of him with ever increasing speed. But Chloe was not there, and all Oliver could do was to surrender to the effects of the drug which now engulfed him, his eyes closing as he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

Clark saves the day! I know a lot of you wanted Clark to make an appearance, so here he is - and he will be back later in the story too.

Ollie's not at his best in this chapter, I know - but don't be too hard on him. He's hurting after what Lex and Akunin did to him, and is struggling to find his way back. He's not perfect, and that's why we love him - a human hero, with human failings. And as for Jimmy - can he stoop any lower? Wait and see!

I hope you are enjoying this story. A MASSIVE thankyou to all those of you who took the time to review the last chapter - it makes such a difference to get feedback, I can't tell you! Please do keep reviewing - I appreciate every one, and every review encourages me to keep going!


	8. Chapter 8: Terrors of the Mind

**WARNING: This chapter does contain character deaths, but they are all just on Ollie's mind......**

**Chapter Eight: Terrors of the Mind**

Lights and sounds filled Oliver's mind, swirling around in his head. Nothing was in focus, but something within him told him that this was no ordinary sleep, no ordinary dream. He wanted to wake up, to re-establish contact with reality, but he could not – instead the fog of sound and light just became more intense, sucking him deeper and deeper into ....where? He didn't know; powerless, he could only allow whatever forces that now controlled him to take him deep into his subconscious, far into the realm that contained his deepest fears......

*

*

And suddenly he was falling.

He could feel himself falling, but he had no sense of where he had come from, or where he was going to. All he knew was that he was falling, spiralling downwards into what seemed like a never ending void. His eyes were open, and yet he could not see – there was only blackness, an all-encompassing blackness that seemed darker than the deepest cave. He tried to cry out, but no sound came; instead he could only hear the air, rushing past at a hundred miles an hour.

"Oliver!"

_Chloe's voice!_ He turned, and there she was, falling with him just a few feet away. Her eyes were filled with a terror such as he had never seen before; the fear that was writ large across her face was elemental in its intensity. She stared at him for a moment, her eyes pleading for him to do something, anything, to rescue her from this inexplicable nightmare. He reached out to her, trying to take her hand, to once again be the saviour who had captured her heart; she did the same, their fingers edging ever closer until they were just inches apart. And then, just as they were about to touch, Chloe's body was snatched away from him, like a puppet on the end of a piece of string. For a moment she hovered a few feet away from him, apparently motionless even as they continued to plummet downwards into oblivion; he could see tears of panic and desperation flowing down her cheeks. She mouthed the words "I love you," and then was gone, pulled down into the all engulfing darkness with a speed and a force that was as sudden as it was powerful.

"Chloe!" he screamed, reaching down after her in some vain attempt to catch her, to pull her back. It was hopeless; she was gone, and he was left alone once more, tumbling downwards in the silent blackness.

And then there was laughter – deafening, directionless laughter, that seemed to surround him on all sides. It was a laughter well suited to the darkness; there was no warmth to it, only an evil that echoed with terrifying clarity through the void. And it did not stop, this laughter – it went on and on, minute after minute, hour after hour. Time ceased to have any meaning, but still the laughter continued, mocking him, deriding his helplessness, his inability to save the woman he loved......

_You're dreaming, _said Oliver to himself. _This is all a dream! None of this is real – none of it!_

But the laughter did seem real, as did the air that rushed past his face as he continued to plummet into the void. This was no ordinary nightmare – this was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. And still there was the sound of laughter, the never-ending sound of laughter.....

And then it was gone – the laughter, the seemingly endless hurtling into the abyss – all gone. Instead Oliver found himself in a vast room, like something out of a European palace. The room was empty, save for a giant bed located at its centre. He could see two people there, a man and a woman. They were making love, their naked bodies entwined in an embrace of uninhibited passion. Oliver felt himself moving towards them, drawn like a moth to a flame; there was something familiar about them, something he recognised in the intensity of their lovemaking....

_He was watching himself! _The flash of recognition caused him to stop dead in his tracks. He was like a ghost, looking down on his body but unable to intervene. The sensation was weird, unsettling, but that was as nothing when compared to the disgust he felt as saw who lay with him in that bed.......

_Akunin! _

For a moment the lips of the two lovers parted, and Akunin glanced across to where Oliver stood, mute and uncomprehending. Their eyes met; his full of fear and self-loathing, hers sparkling with triumph and exaltation. She did not open her mouth, but Oliver could hear her voice echoing in his mind.....

"_You're mine, Oliver – you'll always be mine!"_

He wanted to leap forward, tear the two of them apart, but he could not – his legs had lost all feeling, and refused to obey. And then, apparently from nowhere, Chloe was there, standing by the bedside. Lex stood behind her, and held her tightly in his grip; she appeared helpless, terrified. Oliver wanted to cry out, to tell her it wasn't true, that he was hers forever, but no sound would come from his gaping, panic-stricken mouth. All he could do was watch as the Oliver that lay on the bed glanced up at Chloe, before casually resuming his love-making with Akunin. He didn't seem to care – why was that? Why wasn't he doing something? Oliver tried to move, to stop this obscenity – but it was pointless. He could only look on in horror as Lex pulled a knife from his jacket and plunged it deep into Chloe's back. Her scream – a scream of such intensity Oliver thought it must have penetrated every corner of the known world – pierced the silence. He cried out her name, mouthing it in a silent, agonised yell as the tears flowed down his cheeks, but it was too late. Lex let Chloe's lifeless body slip from his arms, and it fell limply, pathetically, to the ground.

Oliver too fell to the ground, his legs giving way at the scene he had just witnessed. Lex turned to look at him, and laughed – the same, terrible laugh that had echoed through the void - when? Seconds earlier? Minutes? Hours? Time had lost all meaning....

And all the time the two figures on the bed continued to make love, ignoring the spatter of blood on the otherwise crisp white sheets on which they abandoned themselves to their passions.

_This isn't real,_ said Oliver to himself. _None of this is real. Soon I wake up, and all of this will be gone!_

And yet it did seem real; if anything, Oliver felt a heightened sense of reality.

It was too much. He buried his head in his hands, and wept.

*

*

"The Green Arrow has been found guilty of the charges put before this court. He will now face the sentence of his peers."

What was happening? Was that Clark's voice? He sounded so ominous, so grave. Oliver opened his eyes. The vast chamber had been transformed; gone was the bed, or any sign of Lex, or Akunin, or Chloe. In their place was a raised dais, where Clark sat in a large chair, his face clouded with anger. To his left sat Jimmy and to his right Victor, each man mirroring the seriousness of the man who appeared to be presiding over.... what? What was this? They appeared to be sitting in judgement – over him? It made no sense....

Oliver glanced down, to find himself dressed in the familiar leathers of his costume. He felt a hand pressing down on his shoulder, keeping him on his knees; he looked up, to be met by the scowling face of AC. Instinctively he tried to struggle free, but found he could not; his hands were tied firmly behind his back, and more rope pinioned his arms to his sides. He was a prisoner – a prisoner of the Justice League!

"Oliver Queen, you have been found guilty of violating the code of the Justice League. This court will now...."

"No!" shouted Oliver. "This isn't real. None of this is real!"

"Silence him," ordered Clark.

"You don't under..." Oliver's plea was cruelly cut off as AC stuffed a thick cloth into his mouth, before tying it firmly around the back of his head. Oliver tried to resist, but on his knees he was powerless; within seconds he had been gagged with ruthless efficiency.

"Oliver Queen, as a result of your weakness and selfishness one of our number lies dead. Chloe loved you, and you repaid her love with a betrayal so evil it defies description. She would have done anything for you, but when she looked to you for salvation you turned your back on her, making love to your whore as she was brutally slain just a few feet from where you lay, wallowing in your own sin. For that, there can be no forgiveness. Members of the League, what sentence do you pass on this criminal?" Clark looked across at Victor, who did not hesitate:

"Death!" The word seemed so surreal as it came from Victor's lips, but the man's expression gave it a terrible reality.

"Death!" echoed AC.

"Death!" said Jimmy.

That just left Clark. Oliver looked across at his friend, his eyes pleading for mercy, for understanding. There was none – only the bleak reality of justice, raw and undiluted.

"Death!"

"No!" shouted Oliver, the word completely muffled by the gag. He wrenched himself free from AC's hold, and stumbled to his feet. He needed to explain, to tell them it wasn't him, that he had been powerless to save Chloe, that all of this was some terrible nightmare. But how could he convince them, when they themselves were part of this twisted fantasy that was unfolding in his mind? _And it is a fantasy,_ he told himself; _none of this is real. Soon I will wake up and it will all be okay. Soon I will wake up...._

Oliver's lunge forward ended ignominiously as the rope that bound his ankles caused him to trip and fall flat on his face. For a moment he lay there, panting, trying to reassure himself that soon this would be over....

Laughter.

The sound of laughter surrounded him once more, cruel and mocking. He looked up, to find the men who had just condemned him laughing uncontrollably. It was mystifying, terrifying, inexplicable – the friends who had sentenced him to death now giggling as if they were all part of some twisted joke.

As Oliver watched Clark reached up to his face, and to his horror peeled off what it now became clear was a mask.

_Lex!_

The face behind the mask was Lex! Oliver looked to the others, but the faces of Victor, AC and Jimmy had all disappeared, to be replaced by the face of Lex. And they were all laughing at him, this league of Lexs – laughter that seemed echo in the very marrow of his bones.

Once again Oliver clamped his eyes tightly shut, offering up a prayer that soon this nightmare would be over.......

*

*

"Open your eyes, Oliver."

Another voice, again familiar – Lex!

"Open your eyes, Oliver – it's time."

Slowly Oliver raised his head, opening his eyes as he did so. The sight that greeted him was so shocking, so sickening, it was all that he could do to stop himself throwing up. He was still in the chamber, but now the dais and the trappings of a courtroom had disappeared. Instead he was faced with the grotesque spectacle of his six friends hanging like ragdolls from gibbets, their necks broken by the nooses that encircled their necks. They were all there – AC, Victor, Jimmy, Bart, even Clark – and not one showed any sign of life. Most heartbreaking of all was the sight of Chloe, eyes staring blankly into space, her terror at the moment of death captured forever in her death mask.

"They're all dead, Oliver," said Lex nonchalantly, walking into the young hero's field of vision. "All dead. Why didn't you save them, I wonder? They cried out for you - but the Green Arrow was nowhere to be seen."

"NO!" wailed Oliver, tears now flowing down his cheeks. "They're not dead! This is all a lie – none of this is real, do you hear! None of it!"

"You want to believe that, don't you Oliver? But the pain you feel now is real, very real. You could have saved them, Oliver, but you didn't – the allure of Miss Akunin was just too much. So typical of you – once a playboy, always a playboy, I suppose. Still, you should have seen their faces when I told them the truth – that their idol was too busy indulging himself in the arms of my beautiful associate to play the hero today. The hurt in their eyes – _the overwhelming sense of disappointment!_ It truly was a sight to behold, a sight...."

"SHUT UP!" cried Oliver, his voice cracking with emotion. "I don't believe this – any of it!"

"Why Oliver – you seem distressed," mocked Lex, his face a picture of feigned concern as he stared down at the stricken hero. "Miss Akunin, Mr Queen here seems upset – I fear the memory of your lovemaking must be wearing off."

Oliver became aware of movement to his left. Still on his knees, he glanced upwards – to be met with the icy stare of Akunin, her lips twisted into a smile of malicious contempt.

"You're finished, Oliver – it's over," continued Lex. "Look at you. You were the man who had everything – the looks, the money, the girl," he glanced across at Chloe, "and what's left? A pathetic, whimpering boy, the wannabe hero who allowed his friends to die because he couldn't keep his pants on."

"No!" sobbed Oliver, his body shaking with emotion. "This isn't real!" Reason told him that what he said was true, and that this was all part of a nightmare that must end soon, but emotion told him otherwise. It_ felt _real – the corpses hanging lifelessly in front of him, Lex's taunts, the tears that flowed from his bloodshot eyes – all of it. This was unlike anything he had ever experienced, and whatever reason was telling him, his heart was telling him something else.

"I feel sorry for you, Oliver – I really do. And that's why I'm going to do you one last favour – just for old time's sake. I'm going to put you out of your misery, Oliver – that's what you want, isn't it? To join your beloved Chloe on the other side – although after what you've done, I wonder whether she'll have you."

Lex then nodded to Akunin. Oliver heard the click of a weapon being prepared to fire, and then the cold, hard press of a gun's muzzle against his temple. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Akunin, her face glowing in anticipation of her final victory. Oliver knew he should resist, but his will had gone – the sight of all that he lived for so callously destroyed had robbed him of his last ounce of fight. He didn't care whether this was real or not anymore – he just ached for it to be over, whatever that might mean.

"Do it," he whispered.

"Goodbye, Oliver," said Lex, before nodding to Akunin.

The sound of a gunshot – and then nothing.

* * *

That was a tough chapter to write! So difficult to convey in words a drug fuelled nightmare - movie makers are so lucky to be able to use sound and lighting effects to convey a troubled mind. I know some of you wanted some angst, and I hoped that satisfied you - at least for now. Back to reality next chapter - and Toyman's game will really begin!

Thanks to all those of you who have taken the time to review - you know how much your feedback means to me! Please do keep letting me know what you think, and what you'd like to see - I'll try to weave things in if I can. Have a great New Year - here's to much more Ollie/Green Arrow/Chlollie both on screen and in fanfiction in 2010!


	9. Chapter 9: Behind You!

**Chapter Nine: Behind You!**

Jimmy felt a mixture of nervous excitement and curiosity as he stepped once more into the elevator that would take him to the Queen penthouse. When he'd left Oliver's apartment five hours earlier he'd not imagined he would be returning quite so soon, but events had taken an unexpected turn; a call from Chloe asking him to meet up for a coffee, an hour's heart-to heart over a latte, and here he was, about to return to the scene of his crime. His heart beat a little faster as the grille closed and Chloe pressed the button that would take them to the top of the building, and he had to admit he was feeling a little uneasy. What if something had gone wrong? What if Oliver hadn't taken the pills, but was instead waiting for them, ready to expose his attempt to poison him? It was nonsense, of course, and he dismissed the thought almost as soon as it entered his head. He'd covered his tracks carefully, and there was nothing to connect him with the drugs that he'd planted in place of Oliver's medication. No, he could enter the penthouse confident that he would be free of suspicion – and what would they find there? Jimmy could barely contain his curiosity. Had Oliver already taken one of the pills? How would he have reacted? And how would Chloe react? This last question seemed even more important after what she had told him over their coffees just a half an hour earlier.

_Oliver and Chloe had had their first argument!_ As the elevator ascended he recalled the thrill he'd felt when Chloe had told him how the two of them had fallen out over Clark. As Chloe poured her heart out to him it became clear to Jimmy that whilst Oliver might have escaped from the trap that he'd help to set up, he'd not got away unscathed. All of the young hero's insecurities, already raw after what he had been through as Lex's prisoner, had bubbled to the surface, and – fool that he was – he'd taken them out on Chloe. The halo of Mr Perfect had slipped at last – Jimmy had been so pleased he'd wanted to laugh out loud. He'd not, of course – that wouldn't have fitted with the image he needed to cultivate, the image of the loyal, devoted friend, always there in a crisis. So as she'd relived her falling out with Oliver, her pent-up anxieties causing the tears to well up in her eyes, he'd been the very model of sympathetic understanding. Hell, he'd even found himself defending Oliver, trying to explain and rationalise his behaviour to the woman he desperately wanted to make his own. Who'd have thought that – Jimmy Olsen defending his rival, the man he wanted out of Chloe's life for good! Perhaps it would have been surprising a few weeks ago, but Jimmy was a different man now – he was a man who planned, who calculated. He was playing a long game, where the steps along the road to success were sometimes small. But he was convinced he was on the road to success, and that, sooner or later, Chloe would his. And as the elevator came to a halt at the entrance to Oliver's penthouse, he had a feeling that he was about to take yet another of those small steps towards success.

Chloe's thoughts as the elevator ascended smoothly towards Oliver's apartment were very different to those of the man who accompanied her. She felt a mixture of relief and regret at the events of the previous twenty-four hours; relief that Oliver was safe, and regret that she had allowed her emotions to show when Oliver had challenged her over Clark. What he'd said had hurt, and after the stresses of the previous month she understood why she'd been unable to hide her emotions. But the passage of time, and the calming words of Jimmy, had given her a sense of perspective. She could not hope to ever truly understand what Oliver had been through at the hands of Lex, and recovery would inevitably be slow; she could not expect him to always judge the moment correctly. Even Oliver Queen was fallible, after all, but she had to work through those times when he got it wrong; he needed her, and that was all that mattered. However, it was a fragile Chloe who stepped from the elevator into the apartment, a Chloe whose grip on her emotions was only wafer thin...

"Oliver!" she gasped, seeing the body of the young hero sprawled across the long couch in the center of the room. She moved swiftly to his side, fearful that he had had some kind of relapse as a result of his injuries; she could not understand why he lay there, and was not tucked up safely in his bed as the doctor had ordered. She knelt by his side, placing the palm of her hand on his forehead – he was so hot! His whole upper body was drenched with sweat, the moisture glistening on his well sculpted muscles and running down in rivulets towards his boxers.

"Oliver, what's wrong? What's happened?" she asked, her voice soft but urgent. There was no response, Oliver continuing to lay unmoving on the couch.

"Jimmy, something's wrong. Why won't he answer me?" she asked, turning her head as she spoke. It was then that she saw the glass lying on its side on the floor, a small pool of liquid standing on the wooden floorboards nearby. Perplexed, she paused, before the faint aroma of alcohol filled her nostrils. She was beginning to understand now, a well of emotion building inside her as her mind adjusted to this new and unexpected reality; the bottle of whiskey on the nearby table only confirmed her fears.

_Oliver was drunk!_

The tears which were never far away once again filled her eyes, before slipping silently down her cheeks. Why did it have to be this! She could have taken anything else – another argument, the silent treatment, anything. But this! This was too much to bear – not after he'd promised her, given her his word that he wouldn't go near the bottle again. He'd broken that promise, and in an instant the fragile calm that she had created for herself over the previous few hours collapsed like a house of cards.

"Oh, Oliver, why? Why, when you gave me your word?" she whispered, as she gently stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. Her tears were flowing freely now, dropping silently onto his naked torso and mixing with the sweat that formed a golden sheen over his skin. It was all too much – after everything, all that they'd been through together, this felt like the final straw. She was suddenly seized with an overwhelming need to escape – to get some air, to clear her head of the trauma, all the pain, all the anxiety. She needed to go – it didn't matter where, she just needed to go....

"Jimmy, stay with him, will you? I need to go out for a bit," she said, standing and brushing the tears from her eyes.

"Chloe, I'm sure Oliver can explain. I really don't think..."

"Please – Jimmy – just do this for me, will you? I need some time – some time to figure things out, okay?" She didn't wait for a response, but practically ran to the elevator, so desperate was she to make her escape. As she pulled down the grille and pressed the button to descend she caught one last glimpse of Oliver, apparently still sleeping like a child on the couch.

_Why was this happening to them? It wasn't fair – it just wasn't fair!_

As the elevator began to descend Jimmy turned back towards where Oliver lay on the couch. He could barely believe his luck – Chloe believed that Oliver was drunk! It was too delicious for words, and for a moment he did not move, but simply stared at his adversary. For so long Chloe's relationship with Oliver had seemed almost dreamlike in its perfection, and her devotion to her hero had eaten away at Jimmy like a disease. Now, in the space of a single day, the two of them had not only argued, but she had fled from his side, believing him to have gone back on the sacred promise he had given her to stay away from the bottle. Could it be that at long last Jimmy's luck was turning? He hardly dared to hope that it might indeed be the case. Part of him felt sorry for Chloe – it hurt him to see her hurting, and he wanted to scoop her up in his arms, to tell her it would be alright. But all such feelings of compassion were as nothing when compared with the pleasure he felt at seeing the all-conquering force that was Oliver Queen at last come off the rails. And he had engineered it! Jimmy had not felt such joy in many a long day.

He walked slowly over to the couch, until he stood over the helpless hero. He looked so serene, so innocent – Jimmy's lip curled in contempt for the man whose very existence denied him the one thing in the world he wanted more than anything else – the love of Chloe Sullivan. Casually he kicked Oliver's leg, curious to see whether or not Oliver really was out for the count. There was no reaction, and, his lips twisting into a smile, Jimmy squatted down next to Oliver, so that his face was just inches from the other man's head.

"So, Oliver Queen, who's been a bad boy then?" he began, speaking quietly into the ear of the unconscious hero. "Making Chloe all upset – is that what being a hero is all about these days? The Green Arrow a drunk – not the sort of behaviour we expect from our golden boy, now is it? Still, we both know the truth – you've popped one of those pills, and even now you're....well, where are you, Oliver? Is your first trip as bad as it is for some people? I do hope so – I really do. Because I hate you, Oliver – I hate you so much. You have everything, but still you're not satisfied – still you want more. Why Chloe? Why her? You could have anyone, but no, you choose the one woman I love more than anything else in the world. Well, you can't have her, do you hear? She's mine, and I'll do whatever it takes to win her. I will get you out of Chloe's life, Oliver – and that's a promise."

Giving vent to his emotions had a cathartic effect on Jimmy, and he felt empowered as he stood back up. He reached down and picked up the bottle of whiskey, before taking a swig from it, an act of childish defiance in the home of the man whose life he was intent on ruining. Then, almost on the spur of the moment, he held the bottle out in front of him; he paused for a split second, glancing down at the sleeping figure of Oliver, before he poured its contents onto the young man's face.

"Sweet dreams, Oliver!" he said out loud, barely suppressing a giggle as the remaining contents of the bottle splashed over Oliver's face and chest, soaking his hair and the cushion on which his head rested. When it was finished he gently threw the empty bottle into the man's lap, so that it came to rest between Oliver's left arm and the back of the couch. Satisfied with his work, Jimmy then turned and made his way to the elevator, wondering as he did so what Oliver would make of his predicament when at last he came to.

* * *

Chloe almost fell out of the elevator when at last it reached the Basement Parking Area where she had left her car earlier in the day, such was her need to get away. A tumble of confused emotions swirled around in her mind as she walked quickly towards her car – anger, regret, sadness, desperation, and a dozen more. Perhaps most surprisingly of all, she felt guilt; guilt that in some way she had failed the man she loved. Yes, he had broken his word, and that hurt her deeply, but she also could not help but feel in some way responsible. Why had he felt the need to turn to the bottle once more? Why couldn't he talk to her? What was she doing wrong, that he could not open up? Try as she might, she could not help but in part blame herself for Oliver's predicament, and no amount of reasoning was going to dissuade her of that view in the state she was in.

Only one thing was clear to her as she wiped away the fresh tears that had welled up in her eyes; she needed to get away. It didn't matter where, but she needed to escape, to find some space in which she could figure things out. It was with relief, therefore, that she finally made it to her car, fumbling in her handbag to find her keys.

It was as she was about to unlock the car that she spotted something placed on the front window. She took a step to the side, eager to get rid of whatever it was so that she could get out onto the road as soon as possible. What greeted her stopped her dead in her tracks, for there, propped up against the glass, was what appeared to be a doll. She reached out and picked it up, as she did so realising that the clothes it was dressed in were remarkably similar to the outfit she had worn just the day before. But this realisation was as nothing compared to the shock she received when she looked at its face; there, staring back at her, was a picture of herself, smiling broadly. She instantly recognised the photo; it had been taken by a society photographer when Oliver had first taken her out as his fiancé.

For a split second Chloe simply stared at the doll, not quite sure what to make of it. Then she nearly jumped out of her skin when it eyes lit up and its mouth opened.

"Behind you!" it said, its voice sounding like something from a cartoon.

Chloe frowned in puzzlement. What was this all about? What did it mean, "behind you?"

Too late she sensed something was wrong. She whirled round, only to be met by the sharp prod of something hard and metallic against her chest; there was the crackle of an electric charge, and Chloe fell to the ground.

Opening her eyes, she realised she must have blacked out for a second. Realising she had been attacked, she panicked, and tried to move; to her horror, she found she could not. Every one of her muscles appeared to have shut down, and all she could do was lay there and stare helplessly into the air, awaiting her fate.

She didn't have to wait long. Her eyes widened as a large man loomed over her, a huge grin on his face. Chloe just had time to register his odd clothes and the lank greasy hair that hung from his head before he spoke.

"Don't worry, Miss Sullivan! The electric shock will only disable you temporarily – just long enough for me to sedate you," he said breathlessly, his excitement barely contained. "I'm afraid your fiancé won't be coming to save you – but then you know that, don't you? But don't worry about Mr Queen – you've both got such important parts to play in my little game!"

Chloe tried to open her mouth to speak, but could not; her paralysis was total. All she could do was watch as the man pulled a large rag from his pocket, before pressing it down on her mouth and nostrils. The pungent aroma of chloroform filled her senses; she thought of Oliver, and what the man might have meant by what he said, and then everything went black.

* * *

Toyman strikes! What does he have in store - lots of angst for our Chlollie, that's what! Hope you enjoyed this chapter - I enjoyed writing it. I know all of you want Jimmy to get what's coming to him, but it's such fun to write about a villain on the inside, spreading mayhem at every opportunity - it will be hard to get rid of him! I suppose I will eventually, or maybe not - who knows, maybe eventually he'll get what he wants, and get rid of Oliver for good! Just joking - I think....

Thanks to all you wonderful reviewers - you know your feedback is like gold dust to me. Please, please do keep the reviews coming - every one really does make my day.


	10. Chapter 10: In the Hands of a Madman

**Chapter Ten: In the hands of a Madman**

The first thing Chloe was aware of was the smell, a musty, stale aroma of fast food and body odour invading her nostrils as she slowly eased her way back into consciousness. For a few seconds, as her mind lingered in that realm that exists between sleeping and waking, she was aware of nothing else but this powerful smell, so alien to her everyday existence. It was the smell of sweat and burgers, of damp clothes and Indian food; who could live with such a stench? Surely not Oliver, but then who?

It was at that moment that her memory returned, and more particularly that final memory of a man, pressing that rag down over her face....

_She had been kidnapped!_

Her heart suddenly began to beat faster in her chest as the full realisation of the fate that had overtaken her became all too real. She was seated, and could feel her head resting on her chest; her eyes were closed, and prudence told her that it was best if they stayed that way for the time being. Silently, she attempted to move her arms, but found she could not. The feel of rope around her wrists told her that her hands were bound firmly behind her back, and further investigation revealed that her ankles were similarly tied. She was a prisoner, there was no doubt about that – but of whom? Who was the man who had taken her? She'd only caught a glimpse of him – a fat man, dressed in a long, slightly garish coat, with glasses and limp, greasy hair. He'd smiled at her as he'd pressed that rag to her face – an unsettling smile, a smile which for a moment lingered in her mind's eye like some warning of what was to come.

She became aware that she was panting slightly, her anxieties getting the better of her. Irritated with herself, she tried to bring her breathing under control. This wasn't the first time she'd been abducted, after all – if you hung around with the likes of Clark Kent and Oliver Queen, it kinda came with the territory. She just needed to stay calm and focused, and to learn as much as possible; an opportunity for escape would come, as it always did – she just needed to make sure she was ready for it.

She listened, straining her ears for any sound. There was none, save for the ticking of a clock and the distant rumble of traffic. She was still in the city, then – or at least she was in _a _city. Had she been out long enough for her abductor to move her out of Metropolis, to Gotham maybe? She didn't know, but, finally confident that she was indeed alone, she decided to open her eyes....

At first all she could see was the floor, dimly lit by some bulb that must have hung above her. She didn't move her head, not wanting to attract attention if her calculation about being alone was wrong, and so initially her field of vision was limited. Food wrappers of all sorts were strewn in all directions, mixed with what appeared to be tools of various types. Whoever had taken her, he obviously wasn't too interested in keeping up appearances; this, along with the smell which if anything seemed to be getting stronger, told Chloe that her kidnapper was probably a solitary figure, someone who didn't have many visitors – someone who may well be working alone....

Her confidence building, slowly Chloe raised her head. The light in the room was poor, a solitary bare bulb providing the only source of illumination. She appeared to be in some sort of workshop, because all around there were benches overflowing with tools, wires, and all manner of gadgets, some recognisable, some not. The benches appeared as chaotic as the floor, and there seemed to be no order to anything. Not that Chloe was really noticing; her eyes were transfixed by the wall that stood directly in front of her. It was covered in photographs, some cut from magazines and newspapers, some apparently candid shots taken probably by her kidnapper. All the photos – and there must have been hundreds of them, stretching from floor to ceiling – were of one man: Oliver Queen. Every facet of the public life of Metropolis's most famous billionaire was depicted on that wall, from the energetic businessman in the sharpest suit, to the glamorous playboy with an apparently endless set of toys, from motorbikes to helicopters. In every picture Oliver was smiling that effortless smile that had won him so many friends, and which had melted her heart over and over again. The images were so familiar to Chloe, but here there was something more – an addition to every photograph. Across Oliver's face in every picture was scrawled a word, in broad, angry handwriting:

LIAR

FRAUD

TRAITOR

PARASITE

As Chloe stared in growing horror at the twisted collage she could almost feel her blood running cold. This was not the work of a normal kidnapper, someone who might want a ransom for her return. The images in front of her spoke of an altogether more sinister mind, a mind twisted by obsession. Why was her abductor so fixated on Oliver? What did he want? What sort of person did something like this? Not a sane person – no, this was the work of someone not in their right mind, someone deranged....

"So how do you like my board, Miss Sullivan? It took me months to put together, but I'm sure if anyone can appreciate it, _you_ can."

The voice – educated, crisp, with an almost sing-song quality to it – caused Chloe's heart to miss a beat. The man was somewhere behind her, lurking in the shadows; to Chloe's discomfort, she realised that he must have been there all the time, watching her....

"Oliver Queen, Metropolis's favourite poster boy. I take my hat off to you, Miss Sullivan – he is quite a catch, particularly for someone of your rather humble background," said the man, walking past Chloe until he reached the wall. "But I must admit, the two of you make the sweetest of couples – don't you agree?"

At this he turned, and for the first time Chloe could get a clear view of the man who held her captive. He was just as she had recalled him in her mind, only now behind his glasses his eyes seemed to flash with excitement and exhilaration. With his long coat and unkempt appearance he didn't look like a typical kidnapper – and nor did he look like a man in full control of his faculties.

"I have followed you whirlwind romance with interest, Miss Sullivan – but then I follow everything Mr Queen does with interest." The man paused, leaning forward slightly in Chloe's direction as if he were about to confide some important piece of intelligence to her. "Even his little sideline as Metropolis's favourite vigilante!"

He almost appeared to shake with excitement as he made his triumphant revelation, his eyes seeming to widen with the thrill of being able to share his knowledge of Oliver's greatest secret. Inwardly Chloe was gripped by a new sense of foreboding, but outwardly she was determined to show not even a flicker of a reaction; it was what her abductor wanted, and she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction.

"Oh, yes, Miss Sullivan – I know all about Mr Queen's double life as the Green Arrow. Such a well guarded secret, but he can't keep anything from me – anything at all!"

The man had edged closer to Chloe as he spoke, and he spoke faster and faster as he became more and more excited; he had the stage, and he was clearly enjoying every minute of it.

"Well, aren't you going to ask me how I know about pretty boy's dirty little secret?" he sneered, evidently slightly annoyed at Chloe's unwillingness to play her part in his carefully stage managed performance. Chloe did not respond, but simply stared defiantly at her captor.

"Well let me show you," he said, reaching across to a computer screen located on a nearby bench. He pulled it round, so that Chloe could see what it showed – to her horror, she found herself looking at a live feed from Oliver's penthouse.

"Brilliant, isn't it? The clarity of the image is much better than I expected. I see everything that Mr Queen gets up to in his apartment – _everything_." The last word was said with emphasis, and the man's meaning was all too clear. It was not only Oliver's secret life as the Green Arrow he'd observed, but also all the moments that the two of them had shared together – intimate moments, loving moments, moments that had been special and unique. Now it was clear that all the time they thought they were alone they were in fact being watched by the sick creature who now leered at Chloe through his thick glasses; the thought of it made her feel physically sick.

"You seem very quiet, Miss Sullivan – very quiet indeed. I must say, this isn't what I expected from someone with such a feisty reputation." The man was now very close to Chloe, and she could smell his breath as he peered into her eyes.

"I make it a rule not to talk to someone until I'm properly introduced." Chloe's voice was controlled, calm; she gave no hint of the sense of revulsion she felt at the man who now stood just inches from where she sat.

"Really.... Well, of course, I'm forgetting my manners! My name is Winslow Schott, Miss Sullivan – perhaps you've heard of me?"

"Should I have?"

"Should you have? ... Should you have? .......SHOULD. YOU. HAVE!" The question seemed to have flicked a switch inside Schott; he shook with anger, and for a moment Chloe thought he was going to lash out and hit her, such was the pent up rage that she sensed in the man who held her at his mercy. She tried not to flinch, but as he bellowed her words back at her she could not help but wince; there was something elemental about this anger, something insane....

"I am the greatest scientist at work in the United States today! I'm a genius, Miss Sullivan – a genius! My research has made Queen Industries millions –millions, do you hear? I gave your boyfriend the benefit of my services, and what did I get in return? Dismissal, and a promise that I would never work again. How's_ that_ for gratitude? Your lover boy has grown rich off the profits of my inventions, whilst I've been reduced to living like _this_ – is that fair? I ask you, is that fair? I could have won a Nobel Prize by now, had that boy not destroyed everything –_ everything_! Well it's time for payback, Miss Sullivan – it's time that that parasite, that leech, got what's coming to him!" At last Schott came to an end, his face bright red with anger. The venom with which he had spoken left Chloe aghast; there could be no doubt now that she was in the hands of a madman, and one whose hatred of Oliver seemed to be without limit.

"Look, if its money you..."

"Money!" exclaimed Schott, before letting out a short, high pitched laugh. "Oh, I want money, Miss Sullivan – I want my share of what Queen has stolen from me. But I want more than that, my dear – I want far more than that."

There was a brief pause, each staring at the other; the unspoken meaning of Schott's words hung heavy in the air.

"Do you know what I _really_ want?" said Schott at last, recovering some of his former composure and once again leaning forwards so that he was just inches from his captive's face. "I want to play a game."

"What do you mean – 'a game'?" asked Chloe, trying not to recoil from the stench of the man's breath.

"A game of life and death, Miss Sullivan – a game of life and death!" whispered Schott, his eyes widening with pleasure as he thought of what was to come. "I've been planning this for long – so long! But everything is now ready – now you're here, the last piece is in place. It just remains for me to invite our player to begin – shall I do that now, Miss Sullivan? Shall I call lover boy and ask him if he wants to play?"

"Oliver won't play your game, Schott – you must know that."

"Oh, but he will, he will! Particularly when he finds out that if he refuses to play then his pretty fiancé will die! How do you like that, Chloe Sullivan? Are you ready to play the part of a damsel in distress?"

Chloe said nothing, but tried to mask the fear that she felt inside.

"What's more, if hero boy loses my little game .... well, there has to be a forfeit – and that forfeit will be your life! Are you ready for that, my dear? Are you ready to entrust your life to your leather clad lover?"

Schott was exultant, but still Chloe did not respond.

"But you haven't heard the best of it yet, Miss Sullivan! Do you know what our handsome hero's prize will be if he wins my little game? Do you?"

Again, Chloe remained silent.

"_Death_, Miss Sullivan. That's what Mr Queen's prize will be – _death_. Do you like my game, Chloe? Win or lose, billionaire boy is going to suffer – suffer more than you can ever imagine! How much fun we're going to have – truly, I cannot wait to begin!"

* * *

So Toyman has struck - don't you just love mad villains? Schott is going to mess with Chloe and Oliver so much in the chapters to come, and I'm also planning some guest appearances by other characters as well.

Hope you're still enjoying this! Thanks SO much to the wonderful reviewers who constantly inspire me - please, please, please keep the feedback coming! And if you've got something you'd like me to build in, let me know - no promises, but I'll do my best if it fits with the main direction of the story.

Back to Ollie in the next chapter - when he wakes up his problems are only just beginning!


	11. Chapter 11: Trapped

**Chapter Eleven: Trapped**

The first thing that Oliver was conscious of was the smell of alcohol, the unusually strong aroma drifting through his nostrils and into that part of his mind that was struggling to break free of the shackles of sleep. For a few moments he lay unmoving, half aware that the smell was in some ways unexpected, but not fully comprehending its meaning. He knew he had been asleep, but for how long he did not know. What he did know was that the sleep he had enjoyed (no, enjoyed wasn't the right word – endured was more like it) was unlike any sleep he'd ever experienced before. The sleep he had snatched during his long captivity in Lex's cage had never satisfied his need for rest, but even those dark days were as nothing to what he was feeling at that moment, as he tried to drag his mind and body into the land of the living. He felt so tired, so utterly, terribly tired! What sort of sleep was it that left you feeling ten times more exhausted when you finally woke up? Indeed, as Oliver thought about it, he realised he had no recollection of falling asleep – in fact his memory of everything after Chloe had left was a blank....

_Chloe! _His mind was clearing a little now – certainly it was clear enough to allow the sting of regret he had felt at his foolishness at allowing his pride to cloud his judgement to prick his conscience once more. Inwardly he groaned as he recalled how she had left his bedside so quickly, her distress at his thoughtlessness all too obvious from the tears that had started to slip down her cheeks. The sharpness of that memory gave rise to a new resolution; when next he saw her he would apologise without reservation, and declare once more the depth of his love for her. He could never say that enough – how blessed he was to have found a woman like Chloe Sullivan....

Slowly he forced his eyes open, and to his surprise he found himself staring at the ceiling not of his bedroom, but of the main living area of the penthouse. To add to his confusion he could now taste as well as smell alcohol; as he ran his tongue along his lips he could detect the unmistakable flavour of his favourite single malt whiskey. It made no sense – he'd not touched a drop since he'd given his solemn word to Chloe. Gingerly he swung his body round and into a seated position, as he did so the empty bottle of whiskey rolling from where it lay on his body onto the floor. Oliver stared at it for a few seconds, trying to comprehend its meaning. Why was it there? Why was he on the couch, and not in his bed? None of it made any sense, but try as he might he could not summon to mind any memory that would explain his current predicament.

Suddenly he felt a powerful need for water, his body making known its need for rehydration. He pulled himself up from the couch, swaying for a moment as he found his balance. It was then that it hit him – a wave of nausea such as he had rarely encountered before. Aware instinctively that he would not make it to the bathroom in time, he dashed towards the kitchen; he just managed to get his head over the sink before the muscles of his gut contracted and he vomited violently. And so it began – for what seemed like an eternity he was rooted to that spot as his body spewed forth the contents of his stomach. The retching was uncontrollable, and continued long after the contents of his gut had been washed away by the tap that Oliver had fumbled to turn on; when at last it stopped Oliver felt physically drained, sweat pouring off him as he at last managed to pour himself a glass of water.

It was as he gratefully drank the water that an image flashed into his mind, twenty times more vivid than any normal memory. Oliver had to use his free hand to steady himself on the side of the counter, such was the power of the picture that flashed into his mind - a terrible picture, a picture of Chloe's head in a noose, her neck broken and her eyes staring forwards, lifeless and unseeing. Where had that come from? It felt real – in fact, it felt more than real, if that was possible – but Oliver had no understanding of where the horrific picture had come from, or what it meant. Nothing seemed to make any sense, nothing at all....

Instinctively he reached for his cell, dialling Chloe's number. He needed her – he needed to say sorry, he needed her reassurance, he needed her touch. His heart sank when she did not answer, before a far more worrying thought came into his mind. Had he been drinking? The bottle, the alcohol on his lips, his sickness, the inexplicable flashback – weren't these the things you'd expect after a major drinking session? After all, he couldn't remember anything after Chloe had left – maybe he'd hit the bottle? It all made perfect sense, and as Oliver slowly made his way towards the shower the thought that he had broken his promise to Chloe grew ever larger in his thoughts.

Fifteen minutes under the shower had a rejuvenating effect on Oliver's body, if not his mind. As he walked back into the main area of the penthouse, pulling on a tight white t –shirt as he did so, he was filled with a fresh sense of anxiety. As he had stood under the water he had convinced himself that he had been drinking – it was the only thing that made any sense to him – but now he was possessed by the fear that perhaps Chloe had come back and found him in a drunken state. Maybe that was why she wasn't answering her phone – the hurt she felt at his betrayal was too raw. Anxiously he picked up his cell for a second time, desperate to hear the reassuring sound of her voice; it was with immense relief that he heard the sound of his call being answered.

"Chloe, it's Oliver. I tried calling earlier, but you weren't answering. I just wanted to say...."

"I'm afraid Miss Sullivan can't come to the phone right now."

Oliver was stopped dead in his tracks by the sound of an unfamiliar voice at the end of the line. A man's voice – breathless, excited, slightly lacking in control....

"Who is this?" said Oliver after a few second's pause, uncertainty audible in his voice. "Where's Chloe?"

"Miss Sullivan is fine, Mr Queen – and she will remain so for as long as you do exactly as I say."

Oliver's heart missed a beat – Chloe had been kidnapped!

"Who is this? What have you done with Chloe?" he demanded, struggling to keep the mixture of anger and fear that he felt at that moment from his voice.

"Meet me at the gate to Fincham Cemetery in forty minutes. Come alone – or you'll never see your pretty little fiancé again."

"What do you ...?" Oliver did not get a chance to complete his question, as the line went dead. He stood for a moment, his mind reeling from the short conversation which in the space of a few seconds had turned his world upside down. Chloe had been taken, but by who? There had been no clues in what the man had said – just a certainty that came from the knowledge that he was in complete control. For a moment he thought about ringing Clark, or even contacting the guys. He quickly rejected the idea – the man had said come alone, and he couldn't put Chloe's life at risk by disobeying his instructions – not until he knew more about who he was up against. The kidnapper probably intended to force Oliver to pay a ransom; after all the coverage his engagement to Chloe had got in the press in recent weeks, he might have known that they would become the target for every low life and criminal in the city. Oliver cursed himself that he'd not done more to keep Chloe safe, but at least he wasn't up against someone in Lex's league – at least, he thought he wasn't.

Seized by the need for urgency, he dashed into his bedroom. Fincham Cemetery was quite a distance; realising he'd already wasted five minutes, Oliver decided to take his motorbike so as to be certain he could beat the traffic. Swiftly he pulled on his black leather pants, before donning his biker jacket and grabbing his helmet from a cupboard. It was the gear he wore when he went riding on his Ducati, the speed he achieved on the bike often giving him a much needed feeling of liberation after a long day in the boardroom constricted by diary and tie. Today the bike would fulfil a very different role – it would deliver him to a meeting with a man who threatened the life of the woman he loved.

* * *

It was dark by the time Oliver arrived at the gates to Fincham Cemetery. As he brought the Ducati to a halt he scanned his surroundings closely, alert to the slightest danger; his body was still fragile from the effects of the drug he had unwittingly taken, but his senses were tingling, ready for whatever Chloe's kidnapper might have in store. Seeing nothing, he dismounted, taking off his helmet and hanging it from the handle of his bike. He could hear clearly then, and after the roar of the motorcycle combined with the sounds of Metropolis's traffic the silence that greeted him was almost eerie. The place seemed deserted – the perfect location for a meeting that was not intended to be observed.

Oliver glanced at his watch; he was on time, almost to the minute. He could hear his heart thumping in his chest, his anxiety for Chloe mixed with expectation of the coming confrontation. What was about to happen? What demands would the mysterious kidnapper make? Whatever the case, he would find out soon enough.

"You're on time, Mr Queen. I'm glad – I would have hated to have had to hurt Miss Sullivan so early in our little game."

Oliver spun round in the direction of the voice. Before him, standing next to the stone pillar that anchored one of the enormous cemetery gates in place, stood a man, partially obscured by the darkness. He was not what Oliver had expected, not that he really knew what he expected; short and clearly overweight, the man appeared to have no weapon of any sort. There was nothing of the professional about him, no sense that he was a hardened mobster; if anything the figure that lurked in the shadows appeared almost comical.

"Where's Chloe? What have you done with her?" demanded Oliver, his confidence that this was a situation he would be able to handle growing with the sight of his adversary.

"All in good time, Mr Queen – all in good time. After all, you and I have so much to catch up on." The man spoke with control, but Oliver could sense that he was struggling to contain his excitement; despite his unimpressive appearance, he was clearly feeling the thrill of being in charge of the situation.

"What have you done with Chloe?" demanded Oliver a second time, not willing to be drawn away from his primary purpose.

"Don't you recognise me, Mr Queen? I'm disappointed – I really am. Perhaps if I stepped into the light I might jog your memory a little."

The man took a couple of steps forward, so that he was clearly lit by the light that stood on top of the stone pillar.

"Winslow?" said Oliver, recognising instantly the bespectacled figure who now stood grinning just a few feet from him. Knowing who Chloe's kidnapper was instantly filled Oliver with a strange mixture of relief and heightened anxiety. He was relieved that he was not facing a more powerful foe; Chloe had not been taken by organised crime, or a gang of hardened criminals. But at the same time he felt a small shudder of fear run down his spine. He remembered Winslow all too well; the powerful intelligence, the obsession with explosives that had resulted in his dismissal, the unstable personality....

"So you do remember! Of course I'd be disappointed if you hadn't, Mr Queen – after all the money you've made from my inventions, it would be hard for you to forget."

"What have you done with Chloe, Winslow?"

"That's Mr Schott, to you – I think it's time you started to show me a little respect, don't you?"

"Just tell me what you want," replied Oliver abruptly, not willing to give Schott the satisfaction of complying with his demand.

"What I want, Oliver Queen, is justice – justice for all you've stolen from me, justice for how you've ruined my life!" Schott was starting to lose control now – his eyes flashed with anger, and Oliver could sense the pent up emotion building within him.

"Is it money? Is that it? Is that what you want?"

"Oh, I want money, Mr Queen – I want my share of what you stole from me, with interest! But I want more than that – so much more!"

"What do you mean?"

"I want to play a game, Mr Queen. Would you like that? Would you like to play my little game?"

"I'm not playing any games," replied Oliver, frustrated at the unwillingness of Schott to make his demands clear. "Just tell me what you want to let Chloe go, alright?"

"You don't have any choice, Mr Queen – you _will_ play my game. You see if you don't, the lovely Miss Sullivan will die."

Something snapped within Oliver when he heard those words, said with such unsettling certainty. He lunged at Schott, grabbing him by his lapels and slamming him back against the hard stone of the pillar.

"If you do anything to hurt her I'll kill you, do you hear? Anything – anything at all!" It was Oliver who had now lost his composure, his rage at his apparent impotence finding an outlet.

"Oh, but I will hurt her Mr Queen – if you don't play my game, Chloe Sullivan will certainly die," replied Schott, meeting Oliver's angry glare with a look of supreme confidence. "You see I've hidden Miss Sullivan very well – very well indeed. I'm sure you could beat it out of me eventually, but by then it will be too late. You see your beautiful fiancé is even as we speak wired to a device that is set to explode unless I send a delaying code on the hour, every hour. And the code changes every time, so you'll never save her – not unless you do exactly as I say. I'm in control here, Mr Queen – the triumph of brains over muscle, don't you think?"

For a moment Oliver said nothing, and if anything his grip on Schott tightened even as he realised that Schott's grip on him was complete. The man had thought of everything, and Oliver knew that he was trapped; he had no choice but to go along with Winslow's demands, at least for now.

At last Oliver let go, and took a step back. He said nothing as Schott recovered his composure, straightening his collar and readjusting his coat.

"What is it that you want me to do?" asked Oliver quietly, the sound of resignation in his voice.

"I've told you, Mr Queen – I want you to play my little game! And you have my word – if you play my game and win, then Miss Sullivan will be released unharmed."

"And if I lose?"

"Lose? You're not going to lose – you're the Green Arrow!"

For a split second Oliver was unable to mask his surprise at hearing Schott say out loud the name of his alter ego. How did he know? A situation which had appeared manageable just minutes earlier now felt as if it was slipping from his grasp.

"Yes, Oliver, I know about your secret double life – and it wasn't Chloe who told me, I can assure you. I know everything, Oliver – _everything_. So if you were thinking about asking those freaks you know to come to your aid, don't – any contact with your team and Chloe will die, understand?"

Oliver nodded, his face clouded with frustration and anger.

"Good! Now shall we begin my little game? I am eager to start."

"So...?" asked Oliver, unclear about what he was meant to do now.

"So now back to your penthouse, Mr Queen," said Schott, reaching down and picking up a motorcycle helmet he had placed to the side of the pillar. "I must say I'm looking forward to riding pillion on a Ducati – such a magnificent piece of engineering!"

Oliver looked at the helmet in Schott's hand, a question forming in his mind.

"You're wondering how I knew you'd be on the bike? I told you, Mr Queen – I know everything. Now, shall we go? I'm so looking forward to seeing the penthouse that my genius helped to buy!"

* * *

Toyman's in control - we wouldn't want it any other way, would we? Lots of angst and danger to come, and not just for Ollie and Chloe....

I just had to take the opportunity to get Ollie on his Ducati in this chapter - he looked so awesome on his bike in Rabid, I just couldn't resist!

Thanks so much to the wonderful reviewers who keep me going - Your thoughts mean a huge amount to me! Please do review if you can - it helps to know that there are readers out there when writing gets tough. I'll try to post the next chapter next week, but life is about to get busy, so there may be a delay - sorry!


	12. Chapter 12:The Game Begins

**Chapter Twelve: The Game Begins**

Oliver said nothing as the elevator ascended towards his penthouse. He did not look at Schott, although he was aware of his stare boring into him, intense and barely controlled; instead he fixed his eyes grimly on the digital display as it tracked their journey upwards. It had taken them thirty minutes to reach Oliver's building, the Ducati making light work of weaving through the gradually dissipating traffic of late evening. The time had seemed to go by more quickly than that, and Oliver had felt a pang of disappointment when his building had come into view. As he had rode through the city his mind had been busy working through every permutation, every possibility, in the hope that Schott had missed something; that somewhere there was a flaw in his plan, a weakness that he could exploit to save both Chloe and himself from whatever the madman had in store. Try as he might, he could not find one; Schott had thought of every possibility with ruthless efficiency. Consequently, the conclusion that he had reached as he brought the bike to a halt in the underground parking area was a grim one. Schott was in control – and he had no option but to comply with his demands, or else put Chloe's life in danger.

At last the elevator reached its destination. It was Schott who stepped into the penthouse first; such was his confidence he apparently had no fear of allowing Oliver to stand behind him. He walked to the center of the large open plan area before coming to a halt, his head moving slowly from left to right as if he were taking in every inch of his surroundings.

"So _this _is what my genius has paid for – I like it Oliver, I like it a lot! Very much the playboy's pad, and so in keeping with that image you take such care to cultivate. Of course the truth about Oliver Queen is kept hidden – over there, if my memory serves me correctly."

Schott pointed dramatically towards the doors that hid the Green Arrow room, glancing triumphantly at Oliver as he did so. A broad grin appeared on his face as he saw the young hero's face cloud once more with uncertainty, even fear – he had hoped his knowledge of the Queen apartment would unsettle Oliver, and he was not disappointed.

"I told you, Mr Queen – I know everything! Behind those doors lies the secret world of the Green Arrow, and, if I'm not mistaken, behind that door there..." he turned and gestured towards the bedroom, "is where you and Miss Sullivan....well, we both know what the two of you get up to there, don't we?"

Schott leered at Oliver, enjoying his not so subtle allusion. Oliver said nothing, but gritted his teeth; the thought of Chloe in the hands of such a creep was too much to bear.

"So, shall we begin?" asked Schott, throwing himself down on the couch as if he were an old friend. "Time for the first part of my game – are you ready, Mr Queen?"

"Just get on with it, will you?" replied Oliver quietly.

"An eager player! Excellent, Oliver – excellent! Well, my first challenge is a financial one – and I'm sure it's not going to be a problem for a hotshot businessman like you," said Schott, pulling a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket and offering it to Oliver. "I'm not a greedy man, Mr Queen, but I do want what's mine. So you are to transfer $57 million into this account immediately – think of it as a form of compensation, if you will."

"Fifty Seven – that's a bit arbitrary, isn't it?" said Oliver as he took the paper.

"Not at all, Mr Queen – not at all! I filed fifty seven patents whilst working for you at Queen Industries – fifty seven inventions, every one of which you stole from me. So fifty seven is far from being an arbitrary number – in fact, as you will see, it will play a central role in the little game we are going to play together."

"I'll get you your money, Winslow, and then that's it, okay? You let Chloe go, and then you walk away – I give you my word I won't come after you."

Schott laughed. "I really don't think you're in any position to impose conditions, do you? Now I'd start making some calls if I were you – in precisely thirteen minutes I must send my delaying code if Miss Sullivan is not to be blown into a thousand little pieces, and I will not send that code until the money is my account."

"But it's late – I can't organise a transfer of that amount of money in such a short space of time," said Oliver desperately, the colour draining from his cheeks.

"No one said this game was going to be easy, Mr Queen! You're a resourceful man – you'll think of something, I'm sure." At that Schott stretched his legs out along the couch, before ostentatiously pulling a large, ancient looking pocket watch from inside his jacket. "Twelve minutes, and counting!"

Oliver stood rooted to the spot for a moment. For some reason he hadn't expected Schott to make his move so quickly and with such potentially fatal consequences, but one look at Schott's face told him he was in deadly earnest. Then, suddenly, he dashed to his computer, typing in a password that would give him access to his accounts. What followed were ten of the most sickening minutes of Oliver's life, as he struggled to move the funds required into Schott's account by bypassing countless security protocols designed to deter hackers and others who might have designs on the Queen fortune. Every move seemed to take an agonisingly long time, and as sweat poured from Oliver's brow his anxiety was only increased by Schott marking the passage of every minute in a voice which dripped with a mixture of delight and contempt.

"It's done!" said Oliver, as at last the final transfer was made into Schott's account. He slumped back in his chair, exhausted and relieved; there were still two minutes before the deadline was up.

"Really? You'll forgive me if I check," said Schott, who then got up from the couch and made his way slowly over to the computer. Oliver made way for him, like a worried student about to have his work assessed by a teacher. Winslow took his place at the computer, before beginning to access his accounts through the Queen Industries network; ostentatiously he took his time as he typed in the necessary passwords, enjoying the obvious anxiety of the man who stood at his shoulder.

"Look, it's there, okay? Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to screw you over?" said Oliver, glancing at his watch. There was less than a minute to go before Schott's deadline – and the man was showing no sign of making the all important call that would save Chloe's life.

"Temper, temper, Mr Queen! You really must learn to be more patient – remember, I'm in control now, not you," said Schott, still staring at the computer screen.

Another fifteen seconds passed. Oliver could see that the screen had confirmed the transfer of the money – he couldn't understand why Schott was not making the call.

"You can see the money's there – make the call, damn you!" he exclaimed, the tension audible in his voice.

"I'm waiting for something."

"What? What the hell are you waiting for?"

Schott turned and looked up at Oliver, whose desperation was writ large all over his face.

"I'm waiting for you to say the magic word."

"What? What do you mean – the magic word?" asked Oliver, mystified.

"Ask me politely – say please."

The two men stared at each other for a split second, one relishing the rush of power he was feeling at having the young billionaire at his mercy, the other terrified that within seconds the woman he loved was going to die in the most terrible way imaginable.

"Please! Please make the call – I've done what you asked, so please - just make the call."

Schott beamed, and then pulled his cell from his jacket pocket. As Oliver watched he punched in a sequence of fourteen or fifteen numbers, before apparently sending the signal.

"All done," he said lightly, snapping his cell shut. "Congratulations, Mr Queen – you've successfully negotiated Round One of my little game!"

Oliver's relief was obvious; his body seemed almost to slump forwards slightly, as the stress that had built inexorably over the previous fifteen minutes finally found a release.

"You've got what you want – now tell me where she is," he demanded, his mental exhaustion audible in his voice.

"Oliver, Oliver – you're disappointing me! I've told you – this isn't just about the money. It's about the game – a game which has only just begun. Besides, you're so good at it – surely you want to move on to the next level, to see how far you can go?"

"I want Chloe back, you bastard!" said Oliver, his sense of powerlessness producing a flash of defiant anger. He wanted to grab Schott and throw him around the room, beat him until he revealed where he'd hidden Chloe. Reason told him he couldn't – that Chloe's life depended on him staying calm, focused – but at that moment it was all he could do to control the inner rage that his impotence had generated within him.

"All in good time, Mr Queen – all in good time!" replied Schott, whose grin seemed to broaden even as Oliver became more frustrated. "But you're tired – I can see that. Time for us both to get some rest, don't you think? I want you at your best for Round Two – Miss Sullivan's life depends on it!"

Suddenly he sprang from the chair, apparently energised by his growing sense of self-confidence as each piece of the plan that he had worked out with such meticulous care fell into place.

"Please, take a seat," he said, gesturing for Oliver to sit.

Oliver did not move, but simply scowled at his adversary.

"Sit!" demanded Schott, the playfulness in his voice replaced suddenly by something altogether harsher, more vicious.

Reluctantly Oliver complied. Barely had he had time to think about what Schott might be up to when he felt his arms being grabbed and pulled painfully behind him. The feel of twine around his wrists quickly followed, as Schott expertly tied Oliver's hands behind the back of the chair.

"I must apologise for this somewhat crude form of restraint," said Schott as he continued to bind his prisoner, next stretching a length of twine around the young hero's chest and binding his arms tightly to his sides. "But we both need some rest before the game resumes, and I really can't risk you doing something foolish whilst I'm enjoying the luxury of that king size bed of yours. Besides, you need your beauty sleep, too, Mr Queen – we need you to look your best for the second round of my little game."

As Schott knelt down and began to tie each of Oliver's ankles to a chair leg the young hero was already imperceptibly testing his bonds, alert to any sign of weakness. There was none; not only was Schott binding him securely, but the twine that he was using was as strong as a rope ten times as thick. There would be no escape – he was trapped.

"There – all done," said Schott, standing up and admiring his handiwork. "Not too uncomfortable, I hope?"

"How do I know Chloe's still alive?" asked Oliver. It was clear that Schott was about to leave him, and he was keen to get as much information as he could; he might be a prisoner for now, but anything he could find out could prove vital for whatever lay ahead.

"Oh, she's alive – in fact, she's trussed up just like you! Would you like to see?" With that Schott again pulled out his cell, and after a couple of seconds pressing buttons on the display he thrust the screen in front of Oliver. Oliver's eyes widened in horror at the sight that confronted him, for there, in what presumably was a live feed, was Chloe. Only her face could be seen, and there was no clue as to her location – not that Oliver would have been able to take it in if there were. His eyes were locked on hers, wide with fear and stained red with tears. For Oliver it was almost too much to bear; to think of her loneliness, her terror of not knowing what fate awaited her. Something within him snapped, and he could contain his anger no longer.

"You bastard! You sick, psychotic bastard!" hissed Oliver, at the same time struggling vainly against his bonds. "I swear I'm going to make you pay for this, you fat piece of..."

"That's enough!" said Schott, grabbing Oliver by the hair and pulling his head back so that the sinews of his neck were stretched and exposed. "You're the one who's going to pay, Mr Queen – oh, how you're going to pay!"

"If you hurt her..." began Oliver, before his words were cut short by the press of a chloroform soaked cloth that Schott had pulled from a plastic bag in one of his coat pockets.

"Sweet dreams, Mr Queen – sweet dreams!" said Schott breathlessly, as he continued to press the cloth down firmly over Oliver's mouth and nostrils. He could hear the young hero's muffled cries, see the mixture of fear and anger in his eyes, but all attempts at resistance were futile; Oliver's bonds, and Schott's vice like grip on his hair, meant that he could not evade the powerful fumes of the drug. For Schott, too, the experience was little short of intoxicating; to have a man as powerful as Oliver Queen, the mighty Green Arrow, so utterly helpless and at his mercy was exhilarating. He watched, fascinated, as Oliver lost his fight to remain conscious; his muscles quickly became limp, before his eyelids fluttered, and fell shut.

Slowly Schott withdrew the cloth from Oliver's face, before letting go of his hair; freed of its support, Oliver's head lolled forward on to his chest.

"That's right, Oliver – you sleep. Tomorrow we are going to have such fun together, such fun!" said Schott, before he turned and looked across to the entrance to the Green Arrow room, his eyes flashing with excitement. "And while you're sleeping, I'm going to learn all about that secret little world of yours, and your freakish little friends!"

Quickly he made his way over to the large doors that hid Oliver's base of operations. He knew what lay behind, but still he was excited; he was about to find out the secrets of the Green Arrow and his team, secrets that many a crime boss in Metropolis would kill to lay their hands on. Knowledge was power, and he had every intention of learning as much as he could about the so-called Justice League...

Barely a minute later and he was seated before a computer display, bathed in the green light that filled Oliver's secret world. Hungry for knowledge, he devoured every screen, every scrap of information. Victor, Bart, AC – one by one the fresh faces of the young heroes appeared on the screen, their files laid bare before the man who now held their boss at his mercy. He was the puppeteer, and Oliver his puppet – but this was not enough for Schott. He wanted to control them all, to make them dance to his tune; he, Winslow Schott, would do what not even the great Lex Luthor had achieved – he would destroy Oliver Queen's Justice League.

There was one file left to read. Schott read the name on the file:

CLARK KENT

He opened it, and began to read. As he did so his eyes widened – this was different to the others, very different indeed. It soon became very clear that Clark was no ordinary human being – indeed, he was no human being at all....

* * *

Hi everyone! Sorry for no update last week, but life is so busy at the moment, it's been difficult to find time to write. Hope you enjoyed this one - as you can see, I'm setting things up to bring some more characters into the story, including Clark.....

Loved to see Smallville back this week, especially as it was an episode with a lot of Ollie! Great to see the Arrow back in action, and the promise of Chlollie on our screens is just too awesome for words! I wish they'd had time to develop the Dark Archer character a bit more - still, there's always the possibility of bringing him back in a fic. And if you'll forgive me for a moment, but no one rocks the leather biker jacket and jeans look better than Justin - those shots were just SO droolworthy!

Enough swooning. I'll try to post next week, but it could be two weeks, I'm afraid - life is still crazy. Please, please, please post a review - they mean so much, and I'm desperate to hear what you think!


	13. Chapter 13: The Box

**Chapter Thirteen: The Box**

"Chloe....can you hear me, Chloe?"

Schott's voice, playful yet sadistic, sounded through the speakers to either side of Chloe's head. He did not shout, but Chloe could not help but start; the sound of a human voice, indeed any sound at all, seemed almost shocking after the hours of deafening silence she had endured. She guessed it was hours – it was difficult to be certain, given that when she had come round her watch had been missing. Hours of waiting, wondering, fearing.....hours in which her emotions had swung violently and repeatedly, from a grim determination to remain calm, to a cold, all encompassing terror. It was the loss of control that was the worst – the awful understanding that she could do nothing to save either herself or Oliver from whatever fate Schott had planned for them.

The hours of waiting had played on her mind. She had turned countless scenarios over in her head, each one more terrible than the last as her imagination had begun to run riot. In her more rational moments she had tried to tell herself that her imaginings were just that – imaginings, with no basis in fact. Oliver was more than a match for the sweaty little man who had abducted her; he would come to her rescue, the hero of her dreams once more sweeping all before him. But she could not entirely dismiss the fears that continued to eat away at her, even in those increasingly rare moments when she felt calm and in control. Where on earth was she? She had no idea, beyond the fact that that she was lying in some sort of box, her ankles and wrists held firm by straps attached to its sides. A tiny bulb located above her chest cast light on her prison, which was barely larger than she was; there was very little room to move, and the roof of the box was barely inches above her face. It was almost as if it had been designed specifically to hold her, like a coffin made to measure....

How she had come to be in the box she had no idea; presumably Schott had drugged her, just as he had when he had first abducted her. She'd listened intently for any sign of life beyond the confines of her tiny prison, but there was nothing to give an indication of where she was – just a terrible, all pervasive silence, almost unnatural in its intensity. There was very little inside the box to give her any clue as to where she might be, or what Schott might be planning. Besides the single bulb which cast a thin, eerie light around her, there was a water bottle located above her head, with a tube that ran down to within a couple of inches of her mouth. To Chloe's horror, she recognised it as the same sort of bottle one might attach to the cage of a pet, to provide it with water; it was a realisation that was deeply unsettling, not least because it indicated that Schott did not intend her stay in the box to be a short one. Apart from that, she was aware of something heavy strapped to her chest. She could not make it out, beyond the fact that it was housed in a small, metal box, but whatever it was, Chloe instinctively knew that its purpose was not benign. Ever since she had become aware of the box, it had featured ever more prominently in her thoughts, adding a fresh element of uncertainty to her already fevered imaginings.

"Chloe – I know you can hear me. Don't be shy now – say hello to your uncle Winslow."

Schott's voice, always unsettling with its sing-song tone, seemed to echo around the tight walls of the box, like something from an old horror movie. Chloe, her heart pumping hard in her chest, prepared herself for whatever her captor had in store.

"Answer me, you bitch!"

Schott had lost patience; Chloe wasn't playing the game, and the man's inner rage, barely controlled at the best of times, was exposed.

"I can hear you, Winslow," replied Chloe quickly, eager to placate him; if Schott's temper was inflamed there was no knowing what he might do.

"I know you can, Chloe – I can see your eyes are open."

It was such an innocuous comment, but in the situation Chloe found herself it was profoundly disturbing. How did he know she was awake? How could he see her? She swung her head first to the left, and then to the right, before peering into the half light at the far end of the box – where was he? What was he doing?

"I'm here, Chloe – right above you."

Schott was calmer now, clearly enjoying once more being one step ahead of his victim. Chloe peered at the surface of the box directly above her, and quickly located the source of Schott's intelligence; a tiny flickering light indicated the presence of a miniature camera, trained directly at her face.

"Are you comfortable, Chloe? I'm sorry it's not quite what you've been used to of late, but I'm sure you understand – to be a damsel in distress, there needs to be some element of discomfort."

"I've been in worse – and it's an improvement on that hole you call a home," replied Chloe, trying to sound strong and unworried by her plight.

Schott laughed. "Bravo, Miss Sullivan – bravo! Every inch the fearless reporter, even when faced with the possibility of death. I can quite see what Mr Queen sees in you, I really can. When he wakes up I'll tell him you're on good form."

Chloe tensed a little at Schott's last words, immediately understanding their meaning.

"What do you mean, when he wakes up?"

"Don't worry, Miss Sullivan – your handsome hero is just getting a bit of shut-eye, courtesy of a little drop of chloroform."

_He'd got Oliver!_ Chloe's heart sank like a stone; she'd feared something like this would happen, but that didn't make having it confirmed any easier to handle. Schott was too careful to leave anything to chance – of course he'd managed to capture Oliver, he'd been planning this for months.

"What have you done to him!" she demanded, unable to mask the anxiety in her voice.

"Stay calm, Miss Sullivan – stay calm. I have no intention of hurting lover boy – at least not yet, anyway. No, my game has a long way to go, and with you safely stowed away Metropolis's favourite billionaire is like putty in my hands. And he's doing well, Chloe – he really is! Already he's succeeded in winning Round One of my little game – hence the bomb that's strapped to your chest hasn't yet blown you to smithereens!"

A bomb! Chloe tried to hide the fear that suddenly gripped her like a vice, but she could not; Schott could see the terror in her eyes.

"Yes, Miss Sullivan, that device strapped to your chest is more than enough to blow you into a thousand little pieces. And do you know something else? It's programmed in a very particular way - if your leather loving lover fails to complete one of my little tasks, then .... well, I'll leave the rest to your undoubtedly fertile imagination!"

Chloe wanted to respond, but words failed her; all she could do was to stare ahead at the tiny camera that monitored her every move, paralysed by the awareness that she had lost all ability to influence her own fate, or save the man she loved.

"I must say I like the Queen penthouse – I think I may model my own on it," continued Schott, his tone conversational. "I've been taking a look round – wonderful, truly wonderful! That bedroom makes quite the little love nest, doesn't it? And what a bed! So soft – perfect for a good night's sleep. Not that you and lover boy do much of that, eh Chloe?"

Schott sniggered. Chloe said nothing, but the thought of Schott lying where she and Oliver shared their most intimate moments made her flesh creep; although she could not see him, she could picture in her mind's eye Schott leering with perverse pleasure as he desecrated their privacy.

"Still, that was nothing compared to the excitement of seeing the base of the Green Arrow's operation – what a thrill! All that information contained on those computers – it all made for hours of fascinating reading, I can tell you. What interesting people you mix with, Chloe – you and Oliver do have some quite remarkable friends."

Schott was fishing for a reaction and for a moment he paused, waiting to see if Chloe would take the bait. When she did not he continued, eager to reveal to his captive the true extent of what he had learnt about the secret world she and Oliver shared together.

"Aquaman, Cyborg, Impulse..... what an incredible team our dear friend Oliver has assembled! The Justice League, dedicated to righting wrongs and defending the weak – a noble aim, if it weren't for the fact that its leader was the greatest criminal of them all. Perhaps that's why Clark Kent has refused to join Oliver's little band of freaks – but then, he is special in so many ways, isn't he, Miss Sullivan?"

Schott did not have to say he knew Clark's secret; it was obvious to Chloe from the loaded way he had talked about Clark, and the heavy, portentous silence that now hung in the air, that he knew everything.

"Aliens among us – who would have thought it! And he seems such a harmless boy – rather dull, in fact. I wonder how much the Planet would pay for a story like that – millions, I should say."

"Stay away from Clark!" Chloe blurted out her words, unable to control herself any longer; the thought of Clark as well as Oliver at the mercy of this madman was just too much to bear.

"Don't distress yourself, Chloe! For the moment I'm more interested in your fiancé than your Kryptonian friend, but when I'm finished with him, well, who knows? Perhaps a new game, with a new player. Talking of which, I fear I must leave you now – Oliver has had his beauty sleep, and so I think it's time we started Round Two. Don't worry, Chloe – I'm sure he'll win this game as convincingly as he won the last. And if he doesn't - well, you'll soon find out, won't you!"

Chloe pulled at the straps that held her in place, conscious that Schott's words meant that Oliver would soon be facing a second, and probably more dangerous, challenge from his captor.

"Oh! I nearly forgot," said Schott, his pretence at absent-mindedness failing to fool Chloe. "Don't waste your breath shouting for help, Chloe – no one can hear you when you're buried six feet underground. Goodbye, Chloe – sweet dreams!"

_Six feet underground._

Schott had said it so casually, like a throwaway remark made to pass the time of day. For a moment its true meaning did not dawn on Chloe – and then it hit her, shattering her self control as sure as a hammer shattering glass. The box she was in – so cramped, so confined, so claustrophobic – was not standing in some isolated warehouse in downtown Metropolis, or in an abandoned barn somewhere beyond the confines of the city. No, the box which held her prisoner, the box which even as a wave of a panic began to sweep over her seemed to resemble a coffin, was not on the surface at all.....

She had been buried alive!

This realisation, after all the terrors that had filled her mind since she had regained consciousness, was too much for Chloe. Tears began to flow down her cheeks, and within seconds she could control her emotions no longer; her body began to shake as her tears turned to sobs of raw, undiluted fear.

"Oliver!" she cried, her voice cracking with emotion.

Her only answer was silence – empty, unending, terrifying silence.

* * *

"Mr Queen...wake up, Mr Queen!"

Schott's voice drifted into Oliver's thoughts, penetrating the fog of unconsciousness that had shrouded his mind as slowly he began to come round. It did not take him long to recall what had happened – Chloe's abduction, his meeting with Schott, the sickening realisation that there was nothing he could do but play along with whatever twisted game his former employee had in store for him. To his surprise, he could feel that the bonds that Schott had so expertly used to restrain him were no longer wrapped around his wrists and ankles – he was a free man once more, at least physically. Whatever fleeting feeling of hope that that knowledge gave him was quickly replaced with a sense of foreboding; he had been freed for a purpose, and whatever that purpose was, it was unlikely to be good.

"Wake up, damn you!" Schott's angry words of frustration were quickly followed by a slap to Oliver's right cheek, hard and sadistic; the young hero's head was sent flying to the side, and the force of the blow made it clear that the pretence of remaining unconscious was not an option; Schott wanted to play, and Oliver had no choice but to comply.

"That's better!" said Schott, as Oliver, now fully awake, turned his head back in the direction of his captor. "Time for sleeping is over, Mr Queen – we've got our game to play!"

Oliver did not reply, but simply scowled at Schott.

"Aww, feeling a bit sore, are we? Chloroform can leave you feeling a bit groggy, I know. But don't worry – my next challenge will do wonders for clearing that pretty little head of yours."

Schott then turned and walked over to a nearby table. Oliver's eyes widened slightly as he saw what his captor had placed there – his Green Arrow costume.

Schott returned to where Oliver still sat, throwing the tunic and pants onto his lap.

"Time to get changed, Mr Queen – for my next game I think it's time your heroic alter ego made an appearance."

"What do you mean?" asked Oliver, unable to hide the growing sense of unease in his voice.

"You'll see, Mr Queen, you'll see," said Schott, grinning broadly as his eyes flashed with excitement. "Let's just say that after this next game is over, the world will never see the Green Arrow in quite the same way again!"

* * *

As you can see, things are getting worse for our favorite couple - and, this being one of my fics, you just know it's going to get a lot worse, don't you? Lots more angst and action to come, I promise - although I haven't got 57 challenges for Ollie to endure before the story is over!

Not feeling great today, but loved Absolute Justice the other night - amazing! Some great Chlollie moments (signs of things to come?) and Hawkman and Oliver were simply awesome - those guys must have had a ball filming those scenes!

Sorry, but no update next week - life is still crazy, but I should get the next chapter up in two weeks' time. Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing - please do keep letting me know what you think, because I need the feedback to keep going. Even a short review makes a difference - I appreciate them so much.


	14. Chapter 14: A Reputation Destroyed

**Chapter Fourteen: A Reputation Destroyed**

"Man, am I looking forward to next week! I don't think I could handle another five days on the night run."

The words were said with such conviction that Frank Fletcher momentarily glanced across at the young man who had spoken them. He'd only been working with Nick Parsons for a month or so, but already he'd grown to like the guy. Sure, he was like so many of the guys he'd worked with on the night run; new to the job, but nonetheless possessed of a youthful self-confidence that bordered on arrogance. But he had a sense of humour, and, unlike many of his predecessors, he was prepared to listen, to show a measure of respect to a man who had been doing this job for the best part of twenty four years. It was this quality that had led Frank to warm to his new partner, and to sympathise with the problems that working on the night run had created for him. Nick was struggling to keep his relationship with his girlfriend going, the pressure of night work taking its toll. Frank understood the difficulties the young man faced – he'd been there himself, a good few years earlier – and he was enjoying taking on the role of sympathetic listener, listening to Nick's woes as they completed their rounds. He dispensed advice where appropriate, but mostly he just listened, playing the part of a father figure just as if he were working alongside his own son.

Twenty four years. Had it really been that long? Half a lifetime spent in the employ of the same security company, collecting the takings from businesses as they shut up shop for the night and transporting them to the company's secure vault for safekeeping. When he met people for the first time Frank often found that they expected his life to be one of danger and risk, with the constant potential for an armed holdup. The reality couldn't have been further from the truth; his work was dominated by the same mundane routines of so many jobs, and, although he was trained to deal with a hijack situation, not once during all his years of service had he been attacked. The profits of Metropolis's small businesses did not attract the attention of the city's criminal fraternity; the money he carried was too small to interest organised crime, and too well protected to be vulnerable to the various lowlifes and drug users who lived off the proceeds of opportunistic theft. No, Frank's life was as safe and uneventful as the next man's; retirement beckoned, and just as Nick was longing for his time off, so he was looking forward to a life of fishing, long walks, and evenings spent in his local bar.

Frank turned the armoured truck into the road which led to their final stop. The street was deserted, as it always was at this time; at 2:30 in the morning Frank had got used to rarely seeing anyone in the final stages of his route. He began to accelerate, pressing his foot gently down on the gas as he started down a road he had been down so many times before he could probably drive along it safely blindfolded. And then it happened – a loud noise, like a muffled bang. He barely had time to react before he felt the truck veer alarmingly to the right, as if suddenly it had developed a mind of its own. He gripped the steering wheel firmly, trying to reassert some sort of control whilst simultaneously slamming his foot down hard on the brake. For a split second he feared that his actions would have no effect, but then a screeching sound and a rapid deceleration told him that all was well; four seconds later the truck slid to a halt in the middle of the empty street.

"What the hell was that?" exclaimed Nick, still seemingly bracing himself for a potential impact.

"Tire's blown out," replied Frank, immediately understanding what had happened. "Guess this shift is going to go on a bit longer than we expected."

"Man, this sucks!" said Nick, slamming his hands hard against the dashboard in frustration. "I told you those guys in the yard didn't give this truck a good service. Now it's going to be four before we finish this shift."

Without waiting for a reply he opened his door and leapt out of the vehicle, obviously intent on inspecting the damage. Frank opened his mouth to object, to remind him of security protocols, but it was too late; sighing, he instead reached for the earpiece which connected him to his controller.

"Base Five, do you read me? This is Alpha Seven. Come in Base Five."

"_Reading you loud and clear, Alpha Seven."_

"We've got a problem – one of our tires has blown out. Nick's looking at it now, but I guess we're going to need a bit of help out here."

"_No problem, Frank. We've got a fix on your location – should be with you in thirty minutes or so."_

"That's great – we'll just sit it out."

"_Sure Nick can handle that?"_

"He can handle it, Bob, he can handle it," replied Frank, smiling as he spoke; Nick's impatience was well known amongst those he worked with. "Just don't keep us waiting too long, okay?"

Frank tapped his earpiece, severing the connection to his base. Casually he then glanced into his wing mirror, half expecting to see his partner kicking the blown out tire to vent his frustration. He was ready to offer the words of calm and reason that befitted his status as the world weary man of experience, to slip once more into role of mentor, but the sight that greeted him instead caused his heart to miss a beat; Nick could be clearly seen lying face down on the ground, silent and unmoving.

Frank's body tensed, his senses suddenly acutely aware of every sound, every movement. He scanned the surrounding area, his eyes desperately trying to search out the unseen assailant who had attacked his friend. For this was an attack – there could be no other explanation for Nick's plight. Frank pressed the alarm button on the dashboard which would send a signal to his base whilst at the same time he fumbled for his gun, his mind racing as he turned over various scenarios and possibilities in his mind. Was Nick dead? He didn't think so – he'd heard no shot. Were they the victims of some planned attack, or was this something more random? He suspected the latter – if this was a planned hit then they would have taken him out by now. It was probably some junkie, seizing the opportunity of the accident to get money for his next fix. He looked again in the mirror at the lifeless figure of his friend. What if he was badly injured? What if even as he sat there Nick's life was ebbing away? Protocols said he should not move from his vehicle, but stay and wait for assistance; but what if assistance came too late?

_I can handle this_, he said to himself, his heart pumping in his chest. _I've trained for this moment, and I'm damned if I'm going to let some security manual stop me from saving that guy's life. _He wasn't going to leave Nick alone out there, whatever the protocols might say. His partner needed him – and that was all that mattered.

Cautiously he opened his door, his gun at the ready. He listened, his ears straining for the slightest hint of danger – but there was none. Hoping that his theory about a junkie was right and that Nick's attacker was already long gone, he slowly stepped from the vehicle.

The stillness of the night air contrasted with the fear that gripped Frank as he took time to check out his surroundings, his eyes and ears seeking out any sign of danger. He held his gun out in front of him, his finger on the trigger; if the attacker was still out there, he was ready to shoot in a split second. But there was nothing – just the familiar sights of an empty street. Relaxing slightly, Frank glanced across at his friend, and for the first time he was able to make out clearly what had caused Nick to fall to the ground; an arrow protruded from his shoulder, a green arrow....

Frank was suddenly aware of movement from somewhere behind him. He did not have time to turn around before a blow from above sent him flying to the ground, his gun spinning from his hands and landing a few feet from where he fell. Luckily it was within his line of sight, and within a second of landing face down on the ground he was reaching out to grab it, desperate to turn the tables on his still unseen assailant. He was within inches of it before a heavy black boot blocked his path, kicking the weapon far off into the distance. Resigned to defeat, Frank strained his neck upwards, and for the first time came face to face with the man who had so easily taken him down. His eyes widened at the sight of the hooded figure who towered above him, clad head to toe in green leather. He'd read about this vigilante, but not in a million years had he ever thought he'd meet him – and certainly not like this. It seemed incredible – but Frank was staring at none other than the Green Arrow.

"Get up," ordered the Arrow, pointing his crossbow at Frank's head to give his command added menace. The voice was deep, distorted by some hidden device; like the dark glasses which hid the man's eyes, it gave Frank no clue as to the true identity of his attacker.

Frank slowly complied, never once taking his eyes from the crossbow that was trained on his head. The Arrow then gestured for him to move towards the rear of the truck; once again he did as he was told, walking around the prostrate figure of his partner as he did so.

"He's alive," said the Arrow, as if reading Frank's thoughts. "No harm will come to either of you, just so long as you do exactly as I say. Now tie up your friend."

The Arrow threw a roll of twine at Frank. He stared at it dumbly for a moment, before once again the sight of the crossbow levelled at his head concentrated his mind. He proceeded to bind Nick's arms behind his back, closely watched by the now silent figure of his captor.

"That's enough," said the Arrow, gesturing for him stand up. "Now give me the access code to the truck."

There was a moment's silence, the two men staring at each other.

"I can't do that," said Frank finally, his voice strangely flat.

"Give me the code," demanded the Arrow again, his tone this time more insistent.

"I thought you were on our side," said Frank, seemingly shell-shocked by the situation in which he found himself.

"Give me the code or your friend dies!" There was anger in the Arrow's voice now, almost a hint of desperation; Frank knew instinctively that the vigilante was in deadly earnest.

"560998432."

Without another word the Arrow punched the number into the keypad which was placed next to the thick steel doors. A green light appeared above the pad, indicating the door was unlocked; instantly the Arrow grabbed the handle and threw it open.

"Unload it – put the money into the trunk of that car." The Arrow gestured to a car that was parked on the opposite side of the road.

Frank did as he was told. It took a couple of minutes to ferry the bags of cash across to the car, all the time the Arrow watching Frank's efforts and keeping him covered with his crossbow.

"That's it," he said at last, coming to a halt in front of the leather clad man. "You know you'll never get away with this, don't you?"

"Lie on the ground," replied the Arrow, ignoring Frank's last comment. Slowly Frank lay face down on the hard surface of the road, before his arms were grabbed and forced behind his back; within seconds he could feel the Arrow expertly binding his wrists together.

"The city thinks you're a hero, you know that?" said Frank as the Arrow moved from his wrists to binding his ankles. He sensed that his ordeal was nearing its end, and that the time of greatest danger was passed; as a result he felt strangely emboldened, prepared to use words to take on the Arrow even as physically he became a helpless captive. "They won't think you're a hero after this, will they? Is this why you've taken out so many criminals in the last few months – so you can have the city all to yourself? Well enjoy it while you can, because the cops will get you for this, you know that? And I can't wait to see you in the dock, because they're going to send you down for a long, long time."

"Well now, if this gentleman is anything to go by, the reputation of the mighty Green Arrow is never going to recover from this, now is it?"

Frank was temporarily silenced by the sound of a new voice. There was someone else standing very close by – an accomplice, perhaps? But there was something in that voice, something which Frank couldn't quite put his finger on, something unsettling....

"I've done what you wanted – now let's get out of here." Frank could hear the voice of the Arrow, but now it was different; gone was the air of authority and power, to be replaced by something more anxious, almost fearful.

"Now, now, Mr Queen, don't be in such a hurry! I've not quite finished ruining your reputation."

_Mr Queen._ Was that the real name of the Green Arrow? Frank guessed it must be, but nothing was making any sense any more. What did the other guy mean by that stuff about ruining his reputation? The idea that the mysterious second man was an accomplice was quickly being replaced by....what? He really didn't understand anything anymore, but one thing was certain; the arrival of the second man had quickly banished the growing sense of confidence that Frank had been feeling just moments before.

"What the hell is this? What's going on?" he demanded, twisting his neck and looking upwards to try and catch a glimpse of the drama that was unfolding between the two men who stood above him. He caught a glimpse of the second man – an overweight figure, dressed in an overcoat that looked like it was something from the wardrobe of a travelling circus - before a foot was placed firmly on the side of his head, driving his skull into the hard surface of the road.

"What's going on, little man, is that I am destroying the reputation of the city's favourite vigilante. What's the phrase I'm looking for? From hero to zero, in the space of a single night."

"You think this is going to work?" gasped Frank, grimacing as his head was pressed even harder into the ground.

"I know it's going to work," replied the voice of the man who now stood over him. "The people of Metropolis will wake up tomorrow to the news that the Green Arrow is a thief and a murderer."

"Murderer? But...." Frank's voice trailed off, the full meaning of the man's words hitting home. He felt the press of something sharp and metallic against his neck.....

"Goodbye, little man."

"No!!" shouted the Green Arrow.

It was the last voice Frank Fletcher ever heard.

* * *

"You'll pay for this, Winslow," said Oliver, scowling at Schott as he threw himself down on the couch, a large packet of cookies in his hand. They had returned to the penthouse three hours earlier, Schott once again tying Oliver securely to a chair before he had retreated to his bedroom to get some sleep. This time there had been no chloroform to sedate him, and so Oliver had been left to relive the terrible events of earlier over and over again in his mind. The image of the security guard, trussed up and helpless as Schott fired a crossbow bolt into his neck at point blank range, kept recurring in his mind. He'd tried to save him, but it had all happened too quickly; no sooner had he realised that Winslow's latest game would have a lethal element to it then the man was dead. Still, he felt guilty; however well Schott had planned his sick little charade, he felt that somehow he should have done more, should have anticipated what was about to happen. He could do nothing now, of course, and a man was dead; how many more would have to die before this nightmare was over?

He consoled himself with the fact that Chloe was still alive. Schott, delighted with Oliver's performance in this second task, had sent the code to prevent the bomb from exploding. She was safe, and that was something he could cling on to – but for how much longer? Schott had crossed the Rubicon – he'd killed a man. Who was to say he wouldn't kill again? Who was to say the next game wouldn't make him chose between Chloe and the life of some other innocent? The possibilities were too terrible to contemplate, but Oliver could not help but dread where all of this was leading.

"Oliver, Oliver! You look so angry – didn't you get a good sleep? I slept very well – that bed of yours truly is amazing! Perhaps there will be time for you to get a little rest later – I'd hate for you to be tired for Game Number Three."

"You sick bastard," replied Oliver, his stomach turning at the sight of the odious creature who now seemed to have him in the palm of his hand.

"Language, Mr Queen, language! You should be thanking me, after all – not only is Chloe safe, but by killing that little man I have preserved your precious secret identity. Still, gratitude has never been a Queen trait, has it?"

"You're a murderer, Schott, and I'm going to take pleasure in seeing you sent down for a very long time."

"Correction, Mr Queen – _you're _the murderer, not me. Don't you remember? It was one of your delightful green arrows which sent our guard friend to meet his maker. Now, let's see how the early morning news is dealing with your fall from grace, shall we?"

Schott reached for the remote, pointing it in the direction of the large television that was mounted on the far wall of Oliver's penthouse. A picture appeared instantaneously, the images on screen heralding the start of the seven o'clock news.

"_Good morning, Metropolis," _began the newsreader, his serious expression a signal to those who were watching to brace themselves for bad news. _"Our top story today is the shock slaying of a security guard in the Felsted area of the city, the victim of an attack apparently carried out by the vigilante who until now has been targeting the drug gangs who blight the city. I'm talking, of course, of the Green Arrow, and for more on this story we can cross straight to our reporter on the scene, Dick Philips. Dick, what more can you tell us? Was the Archer really behind this attack – after all, he's become something of a folk hero in recent weeks."_

"_It seems incredible, Bill, but that's what the police are telling us – the Green Arrow has gone rogue, and in the most terrible way imaginable," _said the reporter whose face now filled the screen, the police tape in the background a sign that he was at the crime scene. _"Details are still coming in, but it seems the start of the attack on the security truck was caught on nearby cameras. The Green Arrow disabled the vehicle by taking out one of its tires. He then knocked out one of the guards, before forcing the remaining one, a Mr Frank Fletcher, a fifty eight year old father of three, to load about fifty thousand dollars into a nearby car. At that point the footage from the cameras cuts out, but from my sources close to the investigation it seems that the Arrow then tied up Mr Fletcher, before killing him in cold blood by shooting him through the neck at point blank range. A truly terrible crime, Bill, and before he was taken to hospital for medical checks I managed to catch a few words with Nick Parsons, the guard who survived the attack."_

"_It was the Green Arrow – no doubt about it," _said Parsons breathlessly, in footage obviously recorded earlier. _"I caught a glimpse of him before he knocked me out. He murdered Frank in cold blood – an innocent, harmless old guy who'd never hurt anyone, tied up and shot dead. Why did he do that? Why did you do that, Archer? You're scum, do you hear me? Scum!"_

Schott turned the television off, the final image of Parsons' face, contorted in rage as he shouted directly into the camera, left hanging in the memory.

"Well, at least he appears to have fallen out of love with Metropolis's favourite vigilante," sneered Schott, turning and looking at Oliver. "And after the coverage you're going to get over the next few days, I think you're soon going to be public enemy number one, don't you?"

Oliver said nothing, but once again tugged at his bonds, a useless gesture of resistance.

"Did you like the fact that I cut off the security cameras just before I made my appearance? I didn't want to divert attention away from your magnificent performance as a murderer and thief."

The sound of a bell filled the penthouse. The two men glanced across at the elevator, and then back at each other.

"Visitors!" said Schott, apparently unfazed by the unexpected development. "Shall we see who's come to call on Oliver Queen this fine morning?"

He walked over to the elevator door, before pressing a button to open a line to whoever it was who was waiting thirty floors below.

"_Oliver, what's going on? I need to see you – now!"_

The voice was urgent, insistent. It was a voice that Oliver recognised instantly, a voice that gave him the first glimmer of hope he had felt for many an hour.

It was the voice of Clark Kent.

* * *

The Green Arrow framed, Oliver a prisoner, Chloe buried alive with a bomb strapped to her chest, and Clark .... well, you'll just have to wait and see what part Clark will play. I'll only say one thing - there's lots more angst and drama to come! Hope you liked this chapter - I made it a bit longer than normal to make up for the wait.

These are such great times for Chlolliers!!! What a great scene in Warrior - who can now doubt that these two were made for each other! I'm just disappointed that we are going to have to wait to see how it develops - why can't Justin be in every episode? Bring on the Green Arrow Watchtower spin-off now!

Back to reality, and life is still crazy, so updating remains difficult. I'll try to get the next chapter up in a couple of weeks, but it might be a little longer - please be patient, because a delay won't mean I've given up, I promise! Please do review if you can - they mean so much, and even short reviews inspire me to write more. A little bit of feedback would make my day!


	15. Chapter 15: False Confession

**Chapter Fifteen: False Confession**

"Remember, Mr Queen – one false move, one word out of place to your farm-boy friend, and Chloe Sullivan goes to meet her maker. Have I made myself clear?"

Schott stood at the entrance to the Green Arrow chamber, his head slightly cocked to one side as he stared at Oliver, a half smirk on his lips. Oliver met his gaze, his jaw locked in anger and frustration; Clark's arrival should have heralded an end to his captor's reign of terror, but instead it seemed all too likely that it would only make worse an already dire situation. His friend was in the elevator and would arrive any second, demanding answers that Oliver could not give. He so desperately wanted to tell Clark everything – for a split second he had visualised joining forces with him to overwhelm Schott and save Chloe in the nick of time. Schott, however, had read his mind – and yet again he was one step ahead of his prey. Within seconds of Clark's voice filling the penthouse and his tormentor had asserted his stranglehold over the situation, laying down his rules for the meeting that must inevitably follow even as he untied Oliver from the chair. Oliver was to tell his friend nothing of Chloe or Schott, but instead confess to the killing of the guard; if he did not, then the bomb strapped to Chloe's chest would explode. Schott clearly took perverse delight in dictating his conditions to the young hero, turning the tables on a man who was so used to being in control, whether in the boardroom or out on patrol as his leather clad alter ego. Physically Schott might have been no match for Oliver, but his intellect made him an adversary as deadly as any the Green Arrow had encountered; even the unexpected was made to serve its purpose in his twisted game of revenge.

"Have I made myself clear?" Schott repeated the question, this time like a sarcastic school teacher chiding a naughty student.

Oliver nodded his assent, his features fixed in anger.

"Remember – I'll be watching!" Schott then stepped back into the chamber, carefully closing the doors in front of him. Silently Oliver cursed the security system he'd had installed which allowed someone inside the Arrow's control room to monitor the room of the penthouse; even more, he regretted the lead walls he'd fitted to mask the room from surveillance threats. They had been intended to protect his secret identity from the attentions of potential adversaries, but now they would ensure that Clark remained blind to the man who would be pulling the strings just a few feet away.

As the door to the chamber clicked shut Oliver made a grab for the pad of paper which sat on a nearby table. He knew he didn't have long to scrawl his note to Clark – Schott would be viewing the penthouse on a computer screen within seconds. But a written message was his only hope, and as he scrawled his desperate plea for help his mind was already racing, trying to work out how he would pass the message to Clark under the watchful eye of Schott.....

"Oliver, what's going on? Have you seen the news?"

Clark's voice – strong, clear, troubled. Oliver hesitated for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, before he turned to face his friend.

Clark stood at the elevator door, his face etched with concern. The news that he had awoken to had left him stunned, his mind at first unable to take in what seemed to be the impossible. The Green Arrow – _a thief and a murderer?_ It couldn't be true – it was just too absurd for words. Oliver was hot-headed, impetuous – that was why their friendship was always underpinned with a tension that just occasionally found its voice. But a cold-blooded killer? It was a ridiculous idea – and that was why as soon as he had recovered from his initial shock he had dismissed the thought out of hand. No, Oliver was no killer – and if it wasn't him that had been caught on those security cameras, then it must have been someone else, someone who was bent on destroying the reputation of the Green Arrow by framing him for a particularly brutal slaying of an innocent man. It was the only plausible explanation, the only explanation which made any sense – and it was the explanation which had brought him from Smallville to Oliver's door, determined to offer whatever help his friend needed against his unknown foe.

"Oliver, did you hear me? What's happening?" Clark repeated his question, his sense of unease only growing as now he came face to face with his friend. Something was not right – something was not right at all. To begin with, Oliver was dressed in the leathers of his alter ego. That proved nothing of course, but somehow it seemed to put Oliver closer to the crime of which he was accused – after all, since when had Oliver sat down to breakfast as the Green Arrow? And then there was the expression on Oliver's face, so different to what he might have expected. There was none of Oliver's characteristic confidence or humour; nor was there any sense of purpose or anger, which he might have expected had Oliver seen the same news bulletins that he had watched. Instead there was...what? Clark found it difficult to describe. Shock, perhaps? Fear? Both of those, certainly, but also something else - something unexpected. The man who stood before him, who normally exuded certainty from every fibre of his being, appeared paralysed, like a rabbit trapped in the headlights of an oncoming car. All he could do was look silently at Clark, unable to find the words even to answer the simplest of questions. What was going on? What on earth had reduced Oliver Queen, man of action, to this?

"Oliver, someone impersonated you last night. It's all over the news – the Green Arrow is said to have killed a security guard during a hold-up. Do you know what's happening? Who would want to do this to you?"

As Clark spoke he strode over to where Oliver stood, hoping in some way that his physical presence could stir his friend from his stupor. He appeared mesmerised, unable to react to what Clark was saying, as if his mind was struggling to comprehend what to do.....

"Oliver, listen to me!" demanded Clark, taking hold of his friend's arms as if he intended to physically shake Oliver back into the dangers of the present. "Someone is trying to frame you, do you hear? What's happening? Who's after you?"

"No one's after me."

These were the first words Oliver had spoken since Clark's arrival; their flat, almost mechanical tone sounded alien to Clark's ears.

"What do you mean? Haven't you heard what I've been telling you? You're being framed, Oliver – and unless you snap out of whatever it is that's affecting you then things are going to get a whole lot worse." Clark's words were laced with an increasing sense of frustration; his friend's behaviour was baffling – unless, of course, he'd been hitting the bottle again....

"Have you been drinking – is that it? Is that why you're like this?"

"I've not been drinking, Clark, and no one is trying to frame me, okay?" Oliver spoke more decisively now, pulling away from Clark's grip and turning his back on his friend once more.

"I believe you," replied Clark quietly, conscious that his accusation that Oliver had been drinking had overstepped the mark. "But you're in trouble, Oliver – I can see that. How do you know you're not being framed? It's the only explanation that makes any sense."

There was a long pause, Clark staring at the back of his friend as he waited for some explanation. When at last it came, the answer he got was like a bolt of lightning sparking from a clear blue sky – utterly unexpected, and utterly devastating.

"I did it."

"What? I don't understand. You..."

"I did it, Clark. I held up that security truck."

"But... you can't have! That's impossible...it makes no sense! And the guard...what about...?"

"I killed him, Clark – I shot him dead."

With these words Oliver turned to face his visitor. The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, the shock of Oliver's revelation momentarily rendering both silent. Clark stood motionless; he appeared dumbstruck, wholly unable to comprehend what he had just heard. Oliver's features were fixed; gone was the sense of paralysis from earlier, to be replaced by something altogether harder, more unyielding. Whatever inner turmoil he felt at that moment, he knew that Chloe's life depended on him maintaining a mask of flint-like resolve; Schott was watching, and he could not afford for his performance to be anything less than convincing.

"I don't believe you."

"It's true, Clark – he got in my way, so I killed him."

"But _why?_ Why do this, when you have everything you ever wanted?" asked Clark, his voice incredulous. He was hearing Oliver's confession, but he was not believing it – there was something unreal, something bizarre about the whole situation. "There's something you're not telling me, Oliver – something that explains all of this. Are you being blackmailed, is that it? Has someone forced you into this?"

He took a step towards Oliver. Then, without warning, Oliver lunged forwards, grabbing Clark and spinning him round before pinning his arm behind his back and slamming him face down on the table. Clark was initially too stunned to react; before he had thought to defend himself he felt the force of Oliver's body holding him in place, and his warm breath just inches from his left ear.

"I did it, do you hear me Clark? I killed that guard. You want to know why? I'll tell you why," said Oliver, his voice breathless and angry. "I did it because I wanted the thrill, okay? I did it because I wanted to see what it was like to be on the other side of the tracks for a change. Because I'm not perfect like you, Clark – I can't play the hero all the time."

"This isn't you, Oliver! I don't know what's happened, but this isn't you!"

"You're wrong, Clark! I killed a man, and you can call the cops and have me arrested – I don't care anymore. Because you know something, Clark? I enjoyed it – I enjoyed being the bad guy for a change."

Clark had heard enough. Without a moment's hesitation he stood up from the table, throwing Oliver from his back as if he were no more than a speck of dust on his jacket. Oliver was sent flying across the room, hitting the far wall with a bone crunching thud; Clark turned to find him slumped against the wall, a trickle of blood flowing from a cut to his lower lip.

"You're not yourself, Oliver. I don't know what's wrong with you, but I know what you're telling me isn't true – you're not a killer."

"Believe what you want, Clark – it doesn't matter anymore. Now get out – go call the cops if you want. The Green Arrow is dead – and I've killed him."

"Oliver...."

"GET OUT!!!"

Clark hesitated for a moment, before turning and making his way towards the elevator. He wanted to stay, to get to the bottom of whatever lay behind the unbelievable scene which had just played out, but there was something in Oliver's voice that told him now was not the time – he would find out the truth, but not there, not at that moment. As the elevator doors closed he caught a glimpse of his friend – was that the right word now? – still lying on the floor. What was that look that he saw just as the doors clicked shut? Anger? Sorrow? Fear? No – none of those. It was the face of a desperate man – a man crying out for help...

A wave of relief swept over Oliver as the door to the elevator closed, and he heard the familiar sound of the compartment descending to the street below. He'd done it – all he could do now was hope that the little drama that he had manufactured for Schott's benefit would bring the salvation that he and Chloe so desperately needed. He just needed for Clark to find the note that he'd stuffed into his pocket, the note that explained everything....

Clapping – slow, mocking clapping.

Oliver turned his head in the direction of the sound, to find Schott standing in the entrance to the Green Arrow chamber.

"Bravo, Mr Queen, bravo! A performance worthy of an Oscar – so much drama! So much emotion!"

Oliver did not reply, but simply scowled at Schott; he did not want to give his captor the pleasure of a response. Schott walked over to where Oliver lay, towering over the young hero for a moment before squatting down beside him.

"And there's blood! Truly, you gave that your all, didn't you, Mr Queen?" said Schott, observing the trickle of blood that ran down the side of Oliver's chin. "But alas, exceptional as your performance was, I fear it was not quite good enough."

"What do you mean? I did what you wanted, didn't I? If you've hurt Chloe..."

"Calm yourself, Mr Queen, calm yourself!" replied Schott, enjoying the panic in his captive's eyes at the merest suggestion that Chloe might be in danger. "No, Chloe is quite safe – for now. But I fear that your farm-boy friend is going to be coming back, and I can't have that – this is a game for one player, remember. So magnificent as your hospitality has been, I think it's time we resumed our game in a new location, away from the prying eyes of your freakish friends, don't you?"

Again Oliver did not reply, but simply stared at his adversary, his eyes flashing with anger. This was a development he wasn't expecting, a development that might put in jeopardy the plan he had thrown together to free himself from Schott's clutches. He just had to hope that Clark would still come through for him, that he would find it in time....

"Time to go, Mr Queen," said Schott, an insane grin filling his face as he pulled a gun from his jacket and pointed it directly at Oliver. "And no tricks now – Miss Sullivan's life depends on it."

* * *

Something like five minutes had passed since Clark had left Oliver's apartment, five minutes in which Clark had simply walked aimlessly from sidewalk to sidewalk. His mind was still reeling from what he had just heard, revelations that were so shocking they would be laughable if they were not so deadly serious. Oliver, a killer? Just like that? It made no sense – no sense at all. He knew he wasn't being told the truth, that Oliver was holding something back, but he couldn't figure out what. At last, as his mind finally began to clear, he knew what he had to do – something he should have done in the first place. He would return to the penthouse and demand to know the truth – and he wouldn't leave until Oliver had come clean about just exactly what was going on.

Clark came to a halt, before turning back in the direction from which he had just come. He walked more purposefully now, focused on the confrontation to come, a confrontation that this time he would be ready for. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he marched down the street, and it was then that he felt it – something different, something that shouldn't be there....

A piece of paper.

Clark held it between his fingers for a moment, before pulling it out of his pocket and unfolding it. On it he found a short message, scrawled in Oliver's unmistakable hand.

_Being blackmailed_

_Chloe in danger_

_Need Help!_

Clark's heart beat a little faster in his chest. Everything made sense now, but to read that Chloe was in danger filled him with anxiety. Who was blackmailing Oliver? Where was Chloe? What kind of danger was she in? So many questions tumbled around in his head, but one stood out from all the others, one to which he was not sure of the answer.

What should he do now?

* * *

Did you think I'd given up? No way! But I am sorry for the lack of updates - I said last time that life was going to get a bit crazy, but I never knew it was going to get _this _crazy! Wish I had more time to write, but hopefully in a couple of weeks things will clear and I'll really be able to move this story forward. Hope you enjoyed the introduction of Clark - you all know I write mainly for Ollie, but our favorite alien will play an important role in this story from now on, as I know some of you wanted. Will he swoop to the rescue? Not saying, but you know me - heroes never have it easy in my stories....

Are we all celebrating the announcement about Season Ten? I just hope both Oliver and Chloe will be there, playing an important role - now Chlollie has arrived, wouldn't it be crazy to lose it again so soon?

I'll try to post next week - if not, the next chapter will go up the week following. Please do review if you can - I appreciate them so much, and it would be great to hear that you are still reading!


	16. Chapter 16: Surprises

**Chapter Sixteen: Surprises**

Clark watched as the Porsche turned off the main road and onto a side street. Its paintwork gleaming in the late morning sun, the car seemed out of place in this part of town, as if its owner had mistakenly made a wrong turn and ended up in a neighbourhood where he did not belong. But the driver had not come here in error; it was very clear to Clark that he knew exactly where he was going. But then of course nothing about this situation was normal – very far from it. The man who now accelerated away into the old industrial quarter of the city wasn't even the owner of the car; Clark had yet to get a clear view of him, but the round, strangely dressed figure who he could make out behind the wheel was as far from the true owner of the Porsche as it was possible to be. The real owner of the car, of course, was Oliver Queen – the young man who, as Clark was all too aware, now lay trussed up in the trunk of the vehicle he had been tracking for almost an hour now.

Things had moved quickly since he'd discovered the crumpled piece of paper that contained Oliver's desperate plea for help. He had returned to the building where the Queen penthouse was located, quickly appreciating the danger which had prompted Oliver to write the note. His vision penetrating the walls of the apartment, he was able to see that his friend was not alone – two figures now stood inside the penthouse. Momentarily puzzled that he had not picked up the presence of the intruder during his first visit, Clark had quickly focused on the more immediate issue – what to do? Part of him had wanted to rush straight in and rescue his friend, but the gun he could see in the other man's hand, and the uncertainty of Chloe's whereabouts, had made him pause. Taking out the intruder would not have been a problem, but he couldn't risk Oliver getting hurt – and he had no idea what danger Chloe might be in. Caution prevailed, and Clark had decided to wait to see how the situation unfolded.

He had not had to wait long.

Fifteen minutes after his return to the building one of Oliver's prized Porsches had sped from the underground parking lot. Clark had immediately got on its tail, his x-ray vision revealing to him the car's grim human cargo; Oliver, lying helplessly in the trunk, ropes clearly to be seen binding his wrists and ankles. Again his instinct had been to dive straight in and rescue his friend, but once more a voice inside his head had given him cause to pause; taking out Oliver's kidnapper in broad daylight in the middle of Metropolis could have endangered countless lives, and besides, by tailing the car he might find out where Chloe was being held.

So he'd decided to wait, and follow the car to wherever it was heading. And now, as it moved into an area of the city filled with disused buildings and abandoned warehouses, Clark sensed that that destination was not too far away.

The Porsche sped down the road for about a quarter of a mile, before turning off once more. Clark followed at a distance, using his speed to move from one hiding place to another; he didn't want Oliver's captor to realise he was being followed. The road into which the car had turned was a dead end, and as Clark watched it came to a halt next to what appeared to be a disused warehouse. Finding cover in a doorway, he looked on as the door on the driver's side opened, and a man stepped out. It was the first opportunity Clark had got to see the person who held the lives of his two friends in his hands, and the sight that greeted him was not what he expected. The man was even more overweight than he had thought, a long frock coat failing to conceal his round frame; the face that looked from right to left to see if he was being observed was also fat, his bespectacled features crowned with a mop of lank, greasy hair. The sight of the man produced a strange mixture of relief and unease in Clark; relief that his adversary appeared so weak, but unease that he had managed to overpower Oliver, a man so much stronger and fitter than he was.

Satisfied he was alone, the man walked over to a small door in the side of the warehouse, unlocking it before stepping inside. Once more Clark used his x ray vision to scan the interior of the building. He hoped to find Chloe, but was disappointed; the building was empty, save for the image of the man trudging off down a corridor which appeared to take him deep into the warehouse.

Dismissing his disappointment, Clark turned his attention back towards the car. He knew that this was his chance; the area seemed deserted, and it looked as if the kidnapper was not returning any time soon. He sped across to the Porsche, grabbing the lid of the trunk and peeling it away like a man might peel back the wrapper of a chocolate bar. He already knew what he would find inside, and he was not disappointed – there, his body squeezed uncomfortably into the trunk, was Oliver, gagged and bound hand and foot.

Oliver's eyes squinted for a few moments as they adjusted to the sudden burst of light, and then widened as they fell upon Clark. He grunted urgently into his gag, before Clark reached down and tore the strip of duct tape from his mouth.

"You took your time, didn't you?" said Oliver, a smile of relief forming on his lips. "I was beginning to wonder if my little performance had been a little _too_ good."

"What's going on, Oliver? Who is that guy? Where's Chloe?" The questions tumbled from Clark's mouth as with lightning speed he untied his friend and helped him out of the trunk.

"His name is Winslow Schott," replied Oliver, pulling his hood up and over his head to conceal his identity from any prying eyes; he was still in his Green Arrow costume, and to be outside in daylight as his alter ego was potentially disastrous.

"And what does he want with you?"

"Long story. What matters is that he's got Chloe – he's strapped a bomb to her chest, and if I don't play his sick little game then he's going to kill her. We've got to find her, Clark – I can't lose her, do you understand?"

Clark stared at his friend. Even in the darkest situations, Clark had come to expect a stream of one –liners from the young billionaire, who seemed to find humour in everything. Banter was something the Green Arrow had in common with the man who had created him, and it was this fact which made the intensity of Oliver's last words stand out so starkly. He'd never seen Oliver like this before – so focused, so serious. Clark could see at that instant just how much Chloe meant to him – just how much he really did love her.

"It's okay, Oliver – we'll find her, I promise."

"Well, well - if it isn't the farm boy from Smallville, come along to spoil the party."

The two men spun round, to find Schott standing a few feet from where they stood, a gun in his hand.

"I knew you wouldn't be taken in by that little performance of pretty boy there – way too hammy for my liking. And you've been tailing us ever since we left the penthouse – how impressive! And no car, too – I guess what your file said about super speed must have been right, eh?"

Neither Oliver nor Clark took their eyes from Schott, but both immediately realised the significance of what had just been said. Schott had seen Clark's file back at the penthouse – he knew about Clark's abilities.

"It's over, Schott – release Chloe, and I promise no harm will come to you," said Clark, taking a couple of steps towards Winslow.

"Stay back!" ordered Schott, pointing the gun straight at Clark's head. "I know all about you, Mr Kent – Oliver's file on you made fascinating reading. An alien from the planet Krypton, blessed with superhuman powers – amazing! Truly amazing! Such a shame I'm going to have to kill you, but you really shouldn't have interfered – no, you shouldn't have interfered at all."

"Well if you know so much about me, you'll know that the bullets in that gun can't protect you," said Clark, taking a couple more steps towards Schott so that he stood directly in front of the other man. It was at that moment that a wave of nausea swept over him, and his head began to spin.....

"Oh, I know bullets can't hurt you, but I think that this most certainly can!"

With these words Schott reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny piece of green rock, attached to a small piece of rope. All three men knew instantly what it was, and what it meant:

_Kryptonite!_

Clark raised his hands in a futile attempt to protect himself from the devastating effects of the rock. He staggered back a few steps, before falling to his knees, clutching his head in agony.

"Clark!" shouted Oliver, stepping forward to help his friend.

"Stay right where you are, or it won't just be farm boy here who dies!" snarled Schott, pointing the gun directly at Oliver's head. "Remember I've still got Chloe – and I'll kill her in the blink of an eye if you don't do exactly as I say!"

Oliver stopped dead in his tracks. It seemed impossible, but once more Schott had got the upper hand. He felt almost physically stunned by how suddenly things had turned; one moment he was feeling the exhilaration of escape, the next he was experiencing the despair of seeing his powerful friend rendered as weak as a newborn baby.

"Mr Kent here is a dangerous man," said Schott, stooping down and tying the kryptonite around Clark's neck. "How farsighted of you to keep a little piece of Kryptonite in that Green Arrow control room of yours, Oliver - you never know when it might come in useful!"

Unable to speak, Clark grabbed Schott's arm, his eyes bulging with fear and incomprehension. Schott shook him off, before casually kicking the stricken hero over onto his side.

"Get the rope from the car, and tie him up," ordered Schott.

Oliver did not move; he was rooted to the spot, his mind reeling. Why had he kept that piece of Kryptonite? It had seemed a harmless enough decision at the time – to keep a piece of the meteor rock under lock and key, something to be experimented upon by the scientists at Queen Industries in due course. Never in a million years had he intended it to be used like this – as a weapon, a means to inflict pain and suffering on Clark. But a weapon it now was – and the writhing, powerless figure of Clark confirmed just how potent a weapon it really was.

"Tie him up!"

Schott's voice was more insistent this time, and almost in a daze Oliver found himself doing as he was told. Schott watched as he bound Clark's wrists behind his back, before tying his ankles together. Only once did the eyes of the two heroes meet; Oliver's full of remorse and fear, Clark's filled with shock and bewilderment. Only a couple of minutes before they had looked at each other with the relief of brothers reunited, but now their eyes held the terror of imminent disaster.

"That's enough! Now step away," ordered Schott, gesturing with the gun for Oliver to move back. Oliver took a couple of steps back, unable to take his eyes from Clark, who appeared to be visibly losing strength with every passing second.

"Let him go, Winslow – he's got nothing to do with this," pleaded Oliver, hardly aware that his captor was moving behind him.

"Sorry, Mr Queen, but I can't do that – I can't allow anyone to disrupt our little game," said Schott. "Now say good bye to your friend, Oliver – you won't be seeing him again."

Oliver turned, desperate to persuade Schott to spare Clark's life. He didn't get the chance; Schott brought the handle of the pistol down hard on Oliver's head, causing him to fall unconscious to the ground.

Schott stood for a moment, savouring his triumph. Two heroes, brought low by Winslow Schott – who would have thought it? A twisted smile formed on his lips as he looked down at Oliver's unmoving form, knowledge of what he had in store for the arrogant billionaire causing him to salivate in expectation. But Oliver could wait – revenge, after all, is a dish best served cold. No, first he had more pressing things to deal with.

First he had to kill Clark Kent.

* * *

Wasn't sure I'd get this chapter posted this week, but writing it came really easy - so here we are! You didn't really expect Clark's rescue of Ollie to go without a hitch, did you? I know the chapter is a little short, but the opportunity for a cliffhanger was too good to miss! Lots more angst to come, I promise - and for those of you worried about the lack of Chloe, she will be a big part of later chapters, I can assure you.

Waiting for new Smallville episodes is hard, especially when we have the prospect of Chlollie to look forward to. I am so excited by the description of Checkmate that was posted this week - I won't spoil it, but it sounds amazing!

Thanks so much to those of you who have taken the time to review - it means so much. Please do post one if you can - no feedback and I get low, and lose my writing mojo (oops - unintentional rhyme alert!). Should be another chapter up next week. Will Clark survive? Well, he's not my favorite character, so......


	17. Chapter 17: Changing Fortunes

**Chapter Seventeen: Changing Fortunes**

Pain.

Unbearable, overwhelming, excruciating pain.

It seemed to devour Clark, leaving no part of his body untouched; terrible waves of agony radiated outwards from his chest, pulsating like a physical wound magnified a hundred times. There was no wound, of course – just a tiny piece of meteor rock, hanging from his neck. What he would give to be free of that rock! But he was powerless to escape from his suffering, thanks to the ropes that bound his hands and feet. Once again he had been brought low by the effects of Kryptonite, but what now? It was he who now lay in the trunk of Oliver's Porsche as it sped across the city, its destination unknown. But this time there was no one following – no hero waiting for the right moment to come riding to the rescue. His mind addled with pain, the image of Schott dragging an unconscious Oliver towards another car momentarily slipped into his mind, before disappearing again beneath another debilitating wave of pain. He was struggling to focus, but he knew the image was no hallucination; his friend was as much a prisoner of this madman as he was.

Friend. For some reason that word forced itself to the forefront of Clark's mind, demanding attention. Oliver had had Kryptonite, and he'd kept it from him – why? Why would he do that? He knew how dangerous it was, but he had chosen to keep it a secret. Didn't he trust him? Wasn't trust the foundation of any friendship? Clark didn't know anymore, his mind reeling from the effects of the meteor rock. It all seemed so confusing, so hopelessly confusing.....

_Stay focused, Clark. Stay focused – they need you._

The voice inside his head sounded clearly through the fog that swirled inside his brain. Oliver's secret didn't matter now – what mattered was that his friends were in danger. Schott was clearly hell bent on hurting Oliver, and he was using Chloe as a pawn in whatever twisted game he was playing. The man had already killed once, and Clark had no doubt he would kill again if given the opportunity. He had to save them, but how? He was so weak he didn't even have the strength to tug at his bonds; if Oliver had left any give in the knots he had tied, he was too helpless to take advantage of it. He could only wait for the car to reach its destination, and hope that his captor made some mistake that would give him the chance he needed to break free and come to the aid of his friends.

He had no idea how long he'd been inside the trunk of the car; slipping in and out of consciousness, he had lost all sense of the passage of time. However, at last he became aware of the car slowing, and eventually coming to a halt. He listened as first the door of the car opened, before footsteps could be heard circling the vehicle. This was it, and as Clark braced himself for whatever lay ahead he was all too aware that he was woefully ill-equipped to protect either himself or Oliver and Chloe.

The door to the trunk was flung open, and Clark found himself squinting into the glare of the afternoon sun. The sudden intrusion of daylight into his temporary prison only seemed to exacerbate the agony that continued to pulsate through every fibre of his being, and he could not help but let out a gasp of pain as he stared up into the unforgiving eyes of his captor.

"Not travel well, Mr Kent?" asked Schott, a sadistic smile forming on his lips as he took in the helpless state of his captive. "There's a certain irony in that, don't you think? Here you are, an alien who has travelled billions of miles to live as a god amongst us mere mortals, and you can't even handle a little trip across town. I'm disappointed, Mr Kent – I really am. Your file had led me to believe you would be far more interesting - far more of a challenge."

"Why...why are you doing this?" croaked Clark, barely able to speak, let alone offer any resistance.

"Why am I doing this? I'm doing this, my alien friend, because that self-satisfied piece of shit you tried to rescue back there stole everything from me, and left me with nothing – nothing, do you hear? But now he's going to pay for what he's done to me. I'm going to destroy him and everything he cares about. I'm going to make him suffer in ways he can't even imagine – and then do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to kill him, Mr Kent – just like I'm going to kill you now."

Schott spoke calmly, which somehow made the horror of his words that much more acute. Clark opened his mouth to respond, but before he could do so he felt himself being grabbed and pulled upwards. Schott was stronger than he looked, but he still struggled to manhandle the dead weight of Clark's bound body out of the trunk; eventually he succeeded, and Clark fell awkwardly onto the hard ground.

Schott moved away, giving Clark a few precious seconds to take in his surroundings. It was still daylight, but to his disappointment he couldn't see anyone else within his field of vision; once again Schott appeared to have chosen an isolated location for whatever he had in store. The air smelt different somehow, and as Clark cricked his neck to look behind him he could see why; less than a foot from where he lay was the edge of a canal bank, its waters cleansing the air of the smells of the city.

"A nice spot, isn't it? The city authorities have done a magnificent job in clearing up these urban waterways."

Clark looked back in the direction of the voice, to find Schott towering over him. In his hands he held a thick chain, several feet in length. Clark instantly understood its purpose; where once it had been used to anchor barges securely to the bank, now it would be used to send him to a watery death.

"Don't look so alarmed, Mr Kent," said Schott, sensing that Clark understood his intentions. "It will be a quick death, I can assure you – no more than a couple of minutes, if my calculations are correct."

Clark tried to back away, edging along the bank despite the ropes which bound his wrists and ankles. It was a pointless gesture of resistance; within seconds Schott had taken hold of him and was wrapping the chain again and again around his neck and torso.

"Chloe...what about Chloe?" asked Clark, as Schott continued to busy himself with his lethal work.

"Miss Sullivan? Oh, she is to die – I can guarantee you of that. Rather like you, Mr Kent, she made a mistake in getting mixed up with pretty boy. It's a mistake that will cost her her life – indeed, you could say she's half way there already."

"Please...she's got nothing to do with this," pleaded Clark.

"Oh, but she's got _everything _to do with this," replied Schott, grabbing Clark by the hair and pulling his head back so that he could whisper just inches from his ear. "You see Oliver loves her – he loves her more than anything else in the world. And I want to see the pain on his face when I finally kill her – the agony that will be born out of the fact that for all his money, and for all his pretensions to be some sort of superhero, he could not save the one thing he loved from the vengeance of Winslow Schott!"

Schott then pushed Clark away, his body rolling to within inches of the canal's edge. Clark stared down into the water, knowing full well that within seconds he would be sent plummeting into the inky blackness that now lay before him. Escape was impossible; the chain now encircled his body like an enormous metal anaconda, and the tiny piece of Kryptonite that hung from his neck meant that he had no hope of casting off his shackles.

"I am sorry about this, Mr Kent – I would really have liked to get to know you more. But Mr Queen is waiting – and we can't have that, now can we?"

And with that Schott placed his foot against Clark's side, before rolling him over the side of the bank and into the water.

Immediately Clark was aware that he was sinking with great speed, the weight of the chain dragging him downwards and into the darkness. The canal bank fell away vertically, to allow ships and barges to dock; Clark didn't know exactly how deep it was, but he knew that it would be more than enough to drown him. He looked upwards, vainly trying to push for the light with legs that refused to respond. Nothing happened, and as he looked he could see the light of the surface quickly fading from view as the blackness threatened to consume him.

At last he came to rest on the canal floor. He had no idea how far below the surface he was, but the darkness that now surrounded him was a clear enough sign that he had sunk to quite a depth. For a few, strange moments all was calm and silent, Clark barely moving as the cold water swirled around him. There was a sense of unreality to it all, as if it wasn't really happening; it seemed impossible that after all he had been through – his battles with Lex and Brainiac, as well as countless other villains – that it should all be ending like this, anchored to the floor of a Metropolis canal by a madman intent on murdering not just him but also his closest friends. Their faces floated into his tortured mind, their smiles a memory of happier times. Schott was right – Chloe and Oliver were very much in love. And they were right for each other – rarely had he seen a love so natural, so generous, so devoted. It reminded him of the love of his parents, and of the happy days he'd spent growing up in Smallville...

_Focus, Clark!_

Again the voice inside his head brought him back to reality. He had to stay focused, to try to concentrate – if he allowed himself to drift then he was lost. Desperately he strained against the chains that seemed to weigh even heavier against his tortured frame, but still his efforts were in vain; he was attached to that canal floor as surely as if he had been bolted to it. And the pain – the pain was unbearable! The effects of the Kryptonite seemed to be magnified by the coldness of the water, and now he could feel his lungs tightening as they demanded the fresh air that he could not give them.

He was drowning.

That realisation caused him to try once more to free himself from his shackles, but it was no use. What little strength he had left finally deserted him, and he could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness. He knew he mustn't – that to do so meant certain death – but resistance seemed pointless now. The voice that had told him to focus, to stay alert, fell silent, and once again images of Smallville slipped into his mind, images of mom and dad, of happier, carefree days on the farm....

A movement in the water – a large movement, like an enormous fish darting effortlessly through the gloom. Clark opened his eyes, to see a flash of orange and green.....

And then he was moving. He could feel strong arms around his chest, guiding him upwards towards the light. It felt effortless, as if he were as light as a bubble floating naturally to the surface; and yet his hands and feet were still bound, and the chain still snaked around his torso. What was happening? Was this death? Struggling to make sense of it all, he allowed his eyes to close once more, as finally he succumbed to the unconsciousness that had haunted him for so long.

* * *

_I'm alive!_

It was the first coherent thought that entered Clark's mind as he came to. The hard ground on which he lay, the feeling of warm sun on his face – both served to confirm that this was no illusion, and that he had survived Schott's attempt to send him to a watery grave. But how? He'd not freed himself, that was for sure. He remembered the sensation of being lifted, of the feeling of a muscular arm wrapped protectively around his chest. Someone had saved him, and as his mind cleared he knew exactly who had come to his rescue.

He opened his eyes, and found himself staring up at a man he himself had saved not so many months before, a man clad head to toe in the orange and green spandex of his alter-ego, Aquaman.

_AC!_

"Hey there, Boy Scout! I thought we'd agreed you'd leave the water to me?" AC grinned broadly, the sun catching the water droplets that still clung to his chiselled features.

"But how...how did you know I was in trouble?" asked Clark, sitting up. The canal that had nearly claimed his life lay to his right; to his left was the chain, broken into three or four pieces as presumably AC had tore it from his body. Of the kryptonite there was no sign.

"Heard the news about Green Arrow – guessed that someone might need some help. The trackers that Oliver gave us led me to you –what's going on, bro? What's the big guy got himself mixed up in? His tracker's down, and I can't raise Chloe – what's this all about?"

"They're in trouble, AC. A guy named Winslow Schott has got them both – he's got some sort of grudge against Oliver, and is out to destroy him."

"Then I guess it's just as well we're back in town – sounds like the green guy and Watchtower need all the help they can get," said AC, reaching down and offering Clark his hand.

"We?" replied Clark, getting to his feet. He looked around him as he did so, as if he were searching for something.

"Yeah. The kid gave me a call – says he'll be here within the hour," said AC, referring to Bart. "And if you're worried about the green stuff, don't – I threw it into the canal."

Clark glanced back at the water, and then looked at AC. After the shocks of the last few hours, there was something hugely reassuring about the young hero who stood before him, his physical strength and uncomplicated goodness helping to ease the anxiety that he felt for Chloe and Oliver.

"So what now?" asked AC.

"Now we head back to the warehouse where Schott jumped me – if we're lucky, Oliver will still be there." Clark paused, staring his friend straight in the eye. "And AC...."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"No problem, bro – you're part of the team now, remember?"

* * *

They returned to the warehouse, but were out of luck – there was no sign of Schott or his two captives. The memory of Oliver being dragged unconscious to another vehicle flashed once again into Clark's mind; it was all too clear that this was not the location of Schott's lair, and that he had taken Oliver to another, as yet unknown location.

"We got nothing, bro," said AC, his voice flat with disappointment as he stared aimlessly at the empty road.

Clark shared his friend's sense of despondency, but tried not to show it. Instead he turned his attention to the warehouse that Schott had entered. He knew it was empty, but Schott had had a key – perhaps there was something inside, a clue that might lead them to wherever Schott had taken Oliver. He walked over to the door, something within him telling him that this was not a lost cause, and that he would find what he was looking for.....

He was not wrong.

After two minutes of searching in the darkness he found it; a small workshop, littered with wires and circuit boards. The fast food packaging and half eaten burgers were enough to tell him that the room had been used recently, and almost certainly by Schott – hadn't Oliver said that he'd strapped a bomb to Chloe's chest? Well, this looked like a bomb maker's base; he just had to hope that Schott had got careless, that he'd left behind a clue of some sort.....

His eyes scanned the various worktops and shelves. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but he knew he'd recognise it when he saw it.

"Whoah, so do you think this is where this Schott guy hangs out?" said AC, joining him in the room and staring at the mass of electrical equipment scattered randomly across every available surface.

"This is his place – I know it."

"So what are we looking for, bro? Looks like a mess of wires and stuff to me."

"I don't know. But there's got to be something....some clue....." said Clark, just as his eyes fell on some printed sheets that lay discarded on the floor. He reached down and picked them up, seeing that they were printouts of maps of the city. His heartbeat quickened when he saw what was circled on the first – the location of the Queen penthouse, right in the heart of Metropolis. Eagerly he looked at the second. For a moment it made no sense to him – it was a map on a much larger scale, with seven or eight different locations across town circled in red. What did they all have in common? Clark looked more closely, and then he realised.....

What was it Schott had said?

"_It's a mistake that will cost her her life – indeed, you could say she's half way there already."_

Clark looked at AC, his eyes wide with excitement.

"What is it? What have you found?" asked AC, sensing his friend's sudden change of mood.

"I've found her," said Clark. "I know where he's got Chloe!"

* * *

This is a bit of a first for me - I've never written a Clark centred chapter before. Hope you liked it - and as some of you were hoping, the Justice League guys are back! I love AC, so I had to bring him back - and they'll be some Bart to come, as I know he's a fave of a lot of you as well.

Missing Chloe and Oliver? They will both be back in the next few chapters, I promise - lots more angst to come, as always!

Thanks for reading, and thanks especially to those wonderful people out there who take the time to review - you are the best! Without your feedback I would not still be writing - it's that simple. Please do leave some feedback if you can - you would really make my day!

Next chapter in a week or so - might appear Sunday, or it could be Monday. By then we will have had a new Chlollie filled episode, and be looking forward to Checkmate - I can't wait for the Tess-Ollie interaction we're going to get in that one!


	18. Chapter 18: A Game Ends, Another Begins

**Chapter Eighteen: One Game Ends, Another Begins**

LIAR.

PARASITE.

TRAITOR.

LEACH.

The words, scrawled in scarlet across face after face in letters that seemed to hint at the madness of their author, filled Oliver's field of vision. The faces that stared back at him, of course, were his own, reproduced hundreds of times in pictures that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Some were cut from magazines, smiling images of a man about town, living the life of a billionaire bachelor; others showed him with Chloe, two people so very clearly in love. Still more were dozens of photographs of him going about his daily business, leaving the penthouse, grabbing a Starbucks, and arm in arm with Chloe in a Metropolis park on a warm summer's day. These photos were cut from no magazine, but instead were the product of many weeks of surveillance; it was all too clear to Oliver that his captor had been watching him for a long time, planning his twisted game down to the very finest detail...

And across every picture were those words, words which spoke of a mind made sick by a need for revenge, an overwhelming desire to hurt, and to kill. If there were any remaining doubts in Oliver's mind as to Schott's intentions, this wall swept them all away. A shiver ran down his back as his eyes alighted on the single most common word in the display laid out before him:

DIE!

The game was just a means to an end. Whatever he did, he knew that Schott intended to kill him – and almost certainly that meant he intended to kill Chloe too.

Chloe – what she must be going through! The thought of her trapped and alone, a bomb strapped to her chest and never knowing whether her next moment might be her last, was almost too much for him to bear. At least he understood what was happening, had some control over events as he played each round of Schott's sick game – she had no such consolation. She was entirely at the mercy of events, wholly unable to shape her own destiny; all she could do was wait, and cling to the hope that he would come through for her, and once again be the hero that she had fallen in love with. He _had _to escape – he could not fail her, not now, not when she needed him more than ever...

Again he strained at the ropes that bound him securely to the chair. It was a useless gesture, of course; already more than an hour of struggling had failed to loosen his bonds by even a fraction of an inch. His arms were stretched painfully behind the back of the chair, his wrists bound together by a piece of rope that was attached securely to its frame; his ankles were similarly bound to the legs of the chair, with further ropes wrapped tightly around his arms and torso to complete his captivity. Schott had trussed him up with the practised expertise of someone who did not make mistakes; wherever he was, he knew that he had left his prize captive secure and without any chance of escape.

Where was Schott? Oliver had been conscious for over an hour now, but of his abductor there was no sign. The wall of photos and the benches covered in circuitry and wires told him that he was in Schott's lair, but exactly where that was he had no clue; the room was windowless, the only light coming from a bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. Not for the first time, he thought of Clark, the image of his friend helpless and in agony as Schott taunted him with the meteor rock flashing into his mind. Was Clark okay? Schott would not hesitate to kill, and the kryptonite was devastating in the effect it had on Clark, but surely he would escape – wouldn't he? Clark was invulnerable, after all. He couldn't die – it was impossible, just impossible. He would find a way to free himself, and then he'd come to his rescue, before together they would save Chloe, just as they had always done. It had to be like that, because to contemplate anything else was just too terrible. If Clark died, it would be his fault. He had kept the meteor rock, knowing full well how dangerous it was. He had given Schott the means to kill; if Clark died then his friend's blood would be on his hands, just as surely as if he'd hung that rock around Clark's neck himself....

"I see you're admiring my wall – for a narcissistic pretty boy like yourself, it must be pure heaven."

Schott's voice, sneering and contemptuous as ever, sounded from somewhere behind Oliver. The wait was over; now he would find out what had happened to his friend, for good or ill.

"Where's Clark – what have you done with him?" demanded Oliver, trying to turn to face his kidnapper.

"So many photos – do you know how long it took me to create this little display?" continued Schott, ignoring Oliver's question as he walked forward to take up a position next to his prisoner.

"Where is he, Winslow? If you've hurt him, so help me..."

"Months, Mr Queen. That's how long it's taken me – months. I feel I've really got to know you, with all those hours I spent watching your every move. And your courtship of Miss Sullivan – so sweet! You make such a beautiful couple – such a shame it must all come to an end."

"Damn you, Winslow! I asked you a question – what have you done with Clark?" Oliver could not hide the desperation in his voice; he knew that Schott was playing with him, but he couldn't help it; he had to know, he had to know now...

"Mr Kent?" replied Schott, finally turning his head and looking down at the young hero who sat powerless beside him. "Oh, he's dead. Sad, really – I would have liked to have learnt more about your alien friend."

Schott said the words so casually, there full meaning took a moment to sink in. A heavy silence filled the room as Oliver struggled to come to terms with what he had heard. It couldn't be true – it just couldn't. Clark – dead? This wasn't in the script. There had to be some mistake – maybe this was another of Schott's games, another sick attempt to mess with his mind. But a look into the eyes of the man who stood alongside him told him this was no game. Schott had told him the truth, in all its devastating simplicity. His worst fears had been confirmed; Clark Kent, the man who had become his closest friend, was dead – and he was to blame.

"You're lying," said Oliver, knowing as he uttered the words that they were not true.

"Now, now, Mr Queen – you know I'm telling the truth, so why attempt to deny it? Farmboy got in my way, and I killed him – just as now I must kill your beloved Chloe."

Schott's words hit him with the power of a physical blow to his gut. Clark was dead, and now he was going to kill Chloe? It couldn't be true – it made no sense, no sense at all....

"What? But you can't – I've done everything you've asked," said Oliver, his eyes wide with fear as he sensed that events were fast spiralling out of control. "I've done everything you've asked, Winslow – you can't kill her – you just can't....."

"Oh, but I can, Oliver – and I will. And I'm going to enjoy making you watch as I send your precious little Chloe to kingdom come, I really am."

"But the game – what about the game?" said Oliver, desperate now to divert the flow of events away from its seemingly inevitable destination. "Without Chloe you can't make me play the game, Winslow – is that what you want? Is it?"

"The game is over, Mr Queen," said Schott, an air of finality in his voice. "And you lose, I'm afraid."

"But, why?" asked Oliver, his voice a mixture of bewilderment and fear. His head was spinning from the dramatic and unexpected turn of events, but the need to save Chloe from the fate that had befallen Clark crowded out all other concerns.

"Because of _this_," said Schott, suddenly grabbing Oliver by the hair and pulling his head back so that the muscles of his neck were stretched taut. He pulled a scrap of paper from his jacket and thrust it to within a few inches of Oliver's face. Instantly Oliver understood; it was the note he had scribbled to Clark back at the penthouse, the note that was meant to bring about an end to this nightmare. Instead it seemed that now it would not only cost Clark his life, but Chloe's too.

"Recognise it, Mr Queen?" said Schott venomously, the studied calm of a minute earlier disappearing in a storm of anger and pent up rage. Oliver winced as Schott tightened his grip on his hair, twisting it and pulling his head back still further; the eyes that he now stared into were the eyes of a madman, a madman hell bent on exacting his revenge.

"Well, do you recognise it? I found it in your alien friend's pocket. Did you really think this would work, Oliver? Did you really think you could outwit me with this pathetic cry for help? You broke the rules, Oliver – and when you break the rules, you lose the game. So Chloe dies – and there's nothing you can do to stop that, do you hear? Nothing!"

"Please, don't do this," pleaded Oliver, swallowing hard to force air into his lungs. "I'll do whatever you want, Winslow, just don't hurt her, I'm begging you!"

"What I want, Oliver, is to see your face as I kill the one thing in the world you love more than yourself," replied Schott. "Now, let's get this over with, shall we? Time to put Miss Sullivan out of her misery, once and for all."

With that he let go of Oliver's hair, pushing his head forwards as he did so. He then turned to a nearby bench, opening up a laptop before beginning to type in a sequence of access codes.

"So, are you ready to say goodbye, Mr Queen? We should be seeing Miss Sullivan's pretty little face just about now, I think."

With that he typed in a final code, to bring up a live feed from Chloe's prison. But what appeared on the screen was not Chloe's face – instead there was nothing but what seemed to be a picture of a clear blue sky.

Schott frowned, irritated that his moment of triumph had been interrupted by what appeared to be a technical malfunction. He typed in a number of codes again, but still the same image came up on the screen – an image of a blue sky, now with the signs of some thin cloud moving in from the right. Oliver sensed that something was happening, that this was not part of Schott's plan; he said nothing, but a faint glimmer of hope began to take form in his mind....

Suddenly the image of the blue sky lurched dramatically, to be replaced by the face of a young man. He stared arrogantly into the lens of the camera that had once been so cruelly trained on Chloe, before he began to speak. He appeared to be some street punk, the sort of kid many people would cross the street to avoid. Oliver knew better, his heart leaping with joy as he recognised the teenager who at a stroke had turned around his fortunes and given him renewed cause for hope.

_Bart!_

"Hey, Schott – expecting someone else? Sorry to disappoint you, fat man, but Chloe's safe – we've got her. You shouldn't mess with the League, dude – you mess with one of us, and you mess with all us, you get me? We're coming to whip your sorry ass, do you hear? And don't worry, big guy – Clark's safe, okay? We're coming for you, man, we're....."

Bart's words were cut short as Schott picked up the laptop and hurled it at the wall, his fury at what he had just seen all too obvious. As Oliver watched the man seemed to almost shake with anger, his rage at being denied his moment of triumph palpable.

"That was Impulse – but I guess you know that," said Oliver, his voice now confident and assured. Chloe was safe, and Clark was alive! It seemed little short of a miracle – and after the unbearable tension of the last few minutes, Oliver could not hide the relief in his voice. Schott's plans were unravelling, and both men knew it; despite the ropes that continued to hold him securely, the young hero now felt that he was in the ascendant.

"Looks like you were wrong, Winslow," he continued, perhaps unwisely deciding to press home his verbal attack. "In this game _you're_ the loser – just like you always are."

Schott spun round and grabbed Oliver by the head once more, before slamming his skull down on the bench that stood just in front of him.

"Is that what you think? That I've lost?" shouted Schott breathlessly, pulling Oliver's head up from the bench before slamming it down ferociously a second time. "This isn't over, you piece of shit! I've still got you, and you're going to pay, do you hear me? YOU'RE – GOING – TO – PAY!"

With each word Schott slammed Oliver's head down on the hard wooden surface, banging his skull down repeatedly so that the young hero quickly lost consciousness. When at last he had finished he stepped back, breathing hard as he noted with satisfaction the growing pool of blood that emanated from Oliver's smashed nose and lips.

He may have been denied his moment of triumph for now, but the game wasn't over. There were new players involved now, but they could be manipulated, just as Chloe had been manipulated.

One thing was certain. Whatever happened, Oliver Queen was going to die.

* * *

So Chloe has been rescued - just how you'll find out in the next chapter. She will be back in the next installment, I promise - along with our favorite JLA guys. But good news for Chloe means VERY bad news for Ollie - Schott has more games to play, and Jimmy hasn't finished yet either....

Hope you enjoyed it - these are good Chlollie times, what with the awesomeness of Escape, and Checkmate to come. Please do review - they mean a massive amount to me, and without feedback it can get really tough to keep on writing.


	19. Chapter 19: A Race Against Time

**Chapter Nineteen: A Race Against Time**

"Chloe, why don't you come in and get some sleep – we'll wake you if we have any news."

Clark stood on the balcony of the Queen penthouse, his brow furrowed with concern as he looked at the young woman who had been his closest friend for so many years now. The sun was just beginning to set, its evening rays bathing the tall buildings of Metropolis in a warm, golden light, but Clark knew that the beauty of the moment was lost on Chloe. As she stared out across the rooftops it was obvious what was on her mind – the fate of Oliver, as yet still unknown. He had been the first thing she had asked about as Clark had tore the lid off her tiny tomb and ripped the bomb from her chest, her relief at being rescued immediately replaced with an anxiety born of the knowledge that the man she loved was still in the hands of her former captor. She had refused all attempts to persuade her to rest since their return to the penthouse three hours earlier, preferring to wait out on the balcony, the liberating feeling of the warm night breeze on her face some small consolation for the fact that Oliver was still missing, and possibly even worse.

Clark too felt afraid, although he tried not to show it. Finding Chloe had been the easy part. The map had been the breakthrough – Schott's cryptic comment about Chloe already being where she belonged made the circling of cemeteries across the city take on an obvious significance. It had not taken long to find her, and he would never forget the joy he felt as once again he plucked her from almost certain death in that terrible coffin. Not for the first time his x-ray vision had been instrumental in saving someone he loved, but he knew only too well that that was the easy part – finding Oliver would be an altogether more difficult proposition. Schott was clever, and had planned everything with a meticulous attention to detail; now that Chloe was free there was no knowing what he might do. One thing was certain; his hatred for Oliver burned with an intensity that only madness could induce, and Clark understood very well that he would stop at nothing to exact his revenge.

"Chloe...," he said, this time reaching out and placing a reassuring hand on her arm. He needed her to rest; the ordeal she had suffered must have taken its toll both physically and mentally, and whatever her fears for Oliver, forcing herself to the point of collapse would help no one.

"I'm okay, Clark – really," she replied, turning to look at him. It was only then that he could see that she had been crying, the tracks of her tears catching the fading light.

"Hey, he'll be okay," he said, trying to mask the uncertainty in his voice. "Oliver's a fighter – he'll get through this. The guys are out there looking right now – they'll find him Chloe, I promise."

"Why did this have to happen, Clark? We were so happy, you know? And now this – it's so unfair."

Fresh tears began to well up in her eyes. Instinctively Clark pulled her towards him and wrapped his arms around her, offering her the comfort he knew she needed more than any words at the point. She hugged him tightly, needing the reassurance that his presence provided; he had always come through for her, and she desperately needed him to come through for her again.

"I can't lose him, Clark," she said quietly, her voice beginning to choke with emotion. "I love him so much – I just can't imagine how I could carry on without him."

"I know – I know," said Clark, placing his hand gently on the back of her head and pulling it tenderly to his chest. She seemed so fragile, so delicate – there was no trace of the feisty young reporter who had survived so many scrapes before. Her love for Oliver was the strongest emotion that she had ever experienced, and the prospect of losing that love rendered her as weak and helpless as a child.

"Guys, come here – I think I got something!"

Jimmy's excited voice caused the two friends to pull apart. Both turned and rushed inside, Chloe brushing away her tears as she did so. They made their way to the Green Arrow control room, where Jimmy was manning the coms.

"What have you got?" asked Clark, staring over Jimmy's shoulder at the computer screen he was monitoring.

"Someone is trying to make contact using JLA protocols, but it's not one of the guys."

Chloe and Clark exchanged glances, realising the significance of Jimmy's words; JLA protocols were top secret, and known only to members of the League. If it wasn't AC, Bart or Victor, there was only one person it could be - Oliver.

"It's Oliver! I know it is!" said Chloe, unable to contain her excitement that at last the long hours of waiting were coming to an end.

"Okay, bring it up," said Clark to Jimmy, his voice notably more measured. Whatever they found when Jimmy entered the reply code, he felt certain it was not going to be good.

Jimmy typed in the required response, and instantly a live feed filled the computer screen. What they saw caused their hearts to miss a beat.

"Oh God, no!" whispered Chloe, reaching out and grabbing Clark's arm to steady herself. The sight that met their eyes was a shocking one, and one which dashed Chloe's hopes that her nightmare was coming to an end.

Hanging lifeless about a foot from the ground could be seen the figure of Oliver, dressed in the unmistakable leathers of the Green Arrow. His body was clearly lit, presumably by some lamp hanging high above him; the clarity with which he could be seen contrasted with the darkness of his immediate surroundings, which gave no clue as to his location. His arms stretched vertically above his head, and just visible at the top of the screen were the heavy steel manacles that held him in place. It was as if he had been deliberately placed in the spotlight, in readiness for the next act of the twisted drama that Schott had manufactured for his own perverted amusement.

The sight of Oliver in such a state was bad enough, but what really made Chloe's blood run cold was what she saw strapped securely to her lover's chest. It was a bomb, not dissimilar to the bomb that Clark had torn from her chest just hours earlier. It was clear what Schott intended; they were entering the endgame, and Oliver himself was now to be the threatened victim of one of his captor's lethal devices.

Chloe's eyes moved from the bomb to Oliver's face. She wanted to see him, to look into his eyes, but she could not; his head lolled forward onto his chest, and his features were further hidden by the hood which had been drawn up over his head. For one terrible moment she feared that he was dead, that Schott had already exacted his revenge, but she quickly dismissed this thought; the presence of the bomb indicated that Oliver's torment was far from over, and that Schott had much more in store.

Suddenly Schott's face appeared just a few inches from the camera's lens, completely blocking out their view of Oliver.

"Mr Kent! Now how did I know I'd find you waiting for me?" he asked, staring straight at Clark; many miles might have separated them at that point, but the link-up made it feel as if he were in the room with them.

"And Miss Sullivan! I'm most disappointed in you, Chloe, I really am – leaving that delightful little box I'd made especially for you, and the party hardly started!" Schott's tone was gleeful, and his eyes flashed with excitement as once again he was enjoying the experience of being in complete control.

"What have you done to Oliver, Winslow?" demanded Clark, his voice calm and strong; Chloe gripped his arm a little more tightly, needing the reassurance that his presence provided.

"Ahhh! The square jawed hero speaks, and the world trembles!" mocked Schott. "I should have made a better job of killing you, Mr Kent – how did you escape, I wonder? Help from another of pretty boy's band of freaks, no doubt. And so you ride to Miss Sullivan's rescue, and you all feel that warm glow of heroic self-satisfaction. Just one slight problem, isn't there? I still hold the ace in this game, farmboy – and by setting Miss Sullivan free, you've signed Oliver's death warrant."

"No! Please – don't hurt him!" cried Chloe, her face cracking with emotion.

"Awww, don't cry! You'll only upset lover boy – and we don't want that, now do we?" Schott then stepped back from the camera, revealing once more Oliver's stricken form. Winslow then walked back towards his captive, standing to his side as if he were a presenter on some documentary about to explain an inanimate exhibit on display in a museum.

"He's been so brave, Miss Sullivan – I have to admit, he has been brave! But it's not enough to save him, I fear – he must pay for what he has done, isn't that right, Oliver?"

Schott reached off camera and picked up what appeared to be a walking cane. He then held it upwards and placed its tip beneath Oliver's chin, carefully using it to lift the young hero's head so that for the first time his face could be seen. Chloe gasped in horror at what she saw; his face was covered in blood, so much so that it was difficult to work out where his wounds were located. Duck tape had been smeared callously over his mouth, its silver grey color stained with the rivulets of blood which flowed from his shattered nose. He could not speak, but for Chloe that did not matter; his eyes said all that needed to be said. His left eye was badly swollen, but she could still see the defiance and nobility in those beautiful brown eyes that stared back at her. He had endured a terrible beating, but he was still there, still strong:

_Hang on, Oliver! We're coming – I promise, we're coming!_

"I said, isn't that right, Oliver?" repeated Schott. Oliver did not respond, but continued to stare defiantly at the camera.

"You will answer when I ask you a question!" shouted Schott, before pulling the cane away from Oliver's chin and driving it with all the power he could muster into Oliver's gut. Oliver's face contorted in agony, and a muffled cry of pain was just audible; for Chloe it was too much, and she turned her head away, tears welling up in her eyes.

"That's enough, Winslow!" demanded Clark. "No more games – what do you want?"

"No more games? On the contrary, Mr Kent – a new game is just beginning! Oliver here was a good player, but I'm sure that you and your Justice League friends will make more than adequate substitutes. Now, do you want to play?"

Clark did not reply, knowing full well there was nothing he could do to stop Winslow's next plan from unfolding – at least for now.

"You're very quiet, Mr Kent. Let me tell you about my little game – perhaps when you hear about it you'll be more willing to take part. In 5.3 hours the bomb currently strapped to Mr Queen's chest will explode, and send him in a million little pieces to meet his maker. That is, unless you and your freakish friends can find him in time – in which case he will live! What could be more exciting, Mr Kent? A race against time to save the leader of the Justice League – truly, a more magnificent game you could not imagine!"

Clark said nothing, but stared at Oliver, hanging helplessly at Schott's side. His eyes seemed to widen as Schott spoke, and when he finished he shook his head rapidly from side to side. As Clark watched he could see his friend shout something into his gag, the words rendered inaudible by the tape that was plastered across his mouth. It was as if he were trying to tell Clark not to accept Schott's challenge, not to take part in the game.....

A second blow from the tip of the cane, expertly aimed at Oliver's solar plexus, brought the stricken hero's attempt at communication to an abrupt end.

"Well, Mr Kent? Do you want to play – or are you just going to let Mr Queen here die?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No, Mr Kent – not unless you want to abandon leather boy to his fate. So, what will it be? Will the Justice League play Winslow's little game – or should Miss Sullivan there go and buy herself something in black?"

Clark paused for a moment, before uttering the only answer that was possible.

"Okay, Winslow – we'll play."

"Excellent! So, shall we begin? I see no reason to wait, do you?"

With that Schott stepped in front of Oliver, before reaching up and typing some code into the device that was strapped to his chest. When he stepped away an illuminated red display of numbers could be clearly seen, its meaning all too clear.

The countdown had begun.

"Oh, just one more thing before I bring this little chat to an end," said Schott, walking back to the camera so that his face once more filled the lens. "Never let it be said that Winslow Schott doesn't play fair. Want a clue about where to look? Well, think back over our conversation, Mr Kent – if you look hard enough, you'll find leather boy's location. That's enough now – happy hunting!"

And with that the screen went blank.

There was silence in the control room, as they tried to take in what they had just heard and seen. They all understood that Oliver's life was in danger, and that time was against them; equally, they all understood that, despite Schott's final words, he had no intention of letting them win. Oliver's captor intended this game to have only one outcome – the death of the Green Arrow.

"Clark...," began Chloe, her voice choked with emotion.

"It's okay, Chloe. We'll find him – I promise."

"But there's so little time, Clark, and Schott....."

"All the guys are here, Chloe – if anyone can find Oliver, we can," said Clark, turning and placing a reassuring hand on each of Chloe's arms as if to give her strength for the hours to come. "You and Jimmy stay here and work on Schott's clue – maybe you can come up with something. I'll start scouring the city – if I find something I'll let you know."

He looked her straight in the eye, willing her to believe him.

"We'll find him, Chloe – you have my word."

* * *

Jimmy glanced at his watch. Three hours had passed since Schott had been in touch, and still they had found nothing. AC, Bart and Clark had drawn a blank, and try as they might, he and Chloe had made no headway with Schott's cryptic clue. Not that Jimmy was too worried, of course; inside he couldn't have been happier with how things were turning out. All being well, in two hours, eighteen minutes Oliver Queen would be blown to kingdom come, and at last his rival would be no more. As he worked at the computer, apparently intent on finding Oliver's location, he could not help but reflect on how his luck had suddenly changed. Just days earlier his attempt to engineer Oliver's death at the hands of the local mob had been thwarted, but now, out of the blue, this maniac Schott seemed about to achieve what not even Lex Luthor had been able to do – kill Oliver Queen. It seemed almost too good to be true, and it was all that he could do to hide his joy from the young woman who was working feverishly by his side. But he had become well practised in the art of masking his true feelings in recent months, so much so that even as he had enjoyed replaying the images of Oliver being beaten by Schott in his mind he had taken Chloe in his arms and reassured her that everything would be alright, and that Oliver would be found, safe and well. How he hoped it would be otherwise – how he hoped that this time, after so many times when his rival had cheated death, his dream would come true, and Chloe would be his, and his alone.

Suddenly an address flashed up on his screen, bringing him back to reality with a start. He'd been cross checking a number of words on his computer, accessing city records to see if he could get a match. It had seemed like a last straw, an almost certainly fruitless line of enquiry, and so far countless searches combining words like Queen and Schott had yielded nothing. But now, displayed on the screen before him, was an address that made his heart miss a beat.

He'd been searching for a connection between the words Schott and Queen and the number fifty-three, and he'd got a hit:

A warehouse at 53 Queen Street had recently been rented by a W. Schott.

Jimmy stared at the screen for a moment, hardly believing what he was seeing. The link was so clear, so obvious – had Schott really been so careless? It seemed incredible, but Jimmy knew instantly that he had solved the puzzle, and that in that warehouse Oliver was currently counting down the seconds to his own death.

Recovering from the initial shock, Jimmy soon found himself consumed by a wave of silent anger. It was happening again, just like it had happened so many times before – just when he thought he was rid of Oliver some miracle occurred to save the young billionaire from the fate he so richly deserved. It wasn't fair – it just wasn't fair! He could keep his discovery secret, of course, but Chloe wasn't stupid – the search was so obvious, she was bound to stumble across it sooner rather than later. And then Clark and the others would ride to the rescue, Oliver would be freed and then there would be the tearful reunion, Chloe again in his arms and him forced to look on with a forced smile on his face, whilst inside he was dying all over again....

Well it wasn't going to happen. Not this time – not if he had anything to do with it. Oliver was going to die – and he was going to take out a little insurance to make sure that this time there would be no last minute stay of execution.

"Chloe, I'm just going to the bathroom – be back in a second," he said lightly, closing the screen that contained the all important address; Chloe did not even look up as he slipped quietly from the room, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was safely out of earshot he pulled his cell from his jacket, dialling a number that he had used once before. As he was connected he glanced over his shoulder towards the door, making sure that the words he was about to speak would not be overheard.

"_Who is this?"_ said a voice at the other end of the line.

"Never mind who this is – just listen. If you want the Green Arrow get over to 53 Queen Street – _now_."

Jimmy snapped his cell shut, a wave of relief flowing over him. He'd done what he needed to do. If the bomb didn't kill Oliver, the mob would – either way, Oliver Queen was a dead man.

* * *

You just knew that things were going to get bad for our hero, didn't you? After Chloe's escape, Winslow's hatred is now reaching its climax. Will the guys find Oliver in time? Or will Jimmy's call mean that the mob find him first? I have to say I love writing evil Jimmy - the idea of someone on the inside working against our favorite pair has so much potential to create the angst I love! As you can probably guess, the story is moving towards its climax - but there are a few more twists to come, I promise!

I LOVED Checkmate! Chlollie and Green Arrow action - what could be better? The opening scene where Ollie was lured by Tess into a trap reminded me of how he was caught at the beginning of my first story, "Target: Green Arrow." Now if they'd just turn the rest of my stories into episodes...well, I can dream, can't I?

Please do leave a review if you can - they mean a MASSIVE amount to me, and never fail to inspire me to keep on writing. Thanks to those who have reviewed, and please keep reading - more to come next week!


	20. Chapter 20: From the Frying Pan

**Chapter Twenty: From the Frying Pan...**

_I must keep it together. He needs me – I must keep it together!_

It had become her mantra over the last few hours, Chloe saying it over and over in her head as again and again she battled to keep control of her emotions. But it was hard – _it was so hard!_ Try as she might, she could not keep the image of Oliver's battered face from her mind, those beautiful deep brown eyes staring back at her, trying to be strong, trying to tell her it would be alright. She wanted to reach out to him, to take him in her arms and kiss him, her touch like balm to his bloodied body. But she could not, for still, after hours of searching, they had not found him – and time was fast running out.

She glanced at the time display in the bottom corner of her computer screen. More than four hours had passed since Schott had thrown down the gauntlet, so confident that he would win that he had even left them a clue to Oliver's location. His gloating face flashed into her mind, as if to taunt her, mock her failure.

_Can't solve my little clue, Miss Sullivan? I'm disappointed – I really am. I expected more of a journalist of your pedigree – and so did your lover, I suspect. Perhaps that's what he'll be thinking in those final seconds before the big bang – Chloe didn't come through for me..._

Angrily she forced Schott's face from her mind. He would not win – she would not allow it! She would not allow some twisted psychopath to destroy the most precious gift she had ever been blessed with – the love of Oliver Queen. It was his face that now appeared in her mind. This time it was not a face bloodied and bruised, but an image of happier times, and Oliver smiling that achingly gorgeous smile that never failed to melt her heart like ice cream on a hot summer's day. How she loved him! And no one – not Lex Luthor, and certainly not Winslow Schott, was going to take him from her.

Once again she started a search, typing words into the computer in the hope that she would find some match, some clue that would help her find where Schott was holding Oliver. Exhausting her own lines of enquiry, she had started to work through the word combinations that Jimmy had been trawling through an hour or so earlier. It was a long shot, but maybe he'd missed something; they were all tired, and in the stress of the moment even the sharpest individual could overlook something which a fresh pair of eyes might see.

She was disappointed; her search drew a blank. Undeterred, she searched again, this time entering the following:

Queen + Schott + 53

That number meant a lot to Schott; how many times had he mentioned that Oliver had stolen 53 of his inventions during the time he held her captive? And now he'd set the bomb to explode in 5.3 hours – it was too much of a coincidence. That number was the key, she knew it – she just needed to combine it with the right lock.....

And then there it was – the breakthrough she had been waiting for. For a moment she was struck dumb, hardly believing that after so much searching, at last she had found what she had been looking for.

She blinked, but the search result was still there – the miracle had happened!

A Winslow Schott had rented a warehouse on 53 Queen Street two weeks ago.

"Jimmy...Jimmy, I think I've found something!" she said breathlessly, her words struggling to find form as her heart pounded in her chest.

Jimmy looked across at her screen; such was Chloe's excitement, she failed to detect the flash of disappointment on Jimmy's face as he read what was on her screen.

"Jimmy, this is it! This is where he's got Oliver!"

"Maybe..."

"There's no maybe about it! I thought you'd run these word combinations through the search facility – how did you miss this?"

"I...I don't know. I guess..."

"Anyway, it doesn't matter now," said Chloe, glancing again at the clock in the corner of the display. "What matters is we've found him – and with more than hour to spare! Boy Scout, do you read me? This is Watchtower – come in Boy Scout."

"_Hearing you loud and clear, Watchtower – what have you got?"_

"We've found him!" exclaimed Chloe, trying to remain calm. "Get over to 53 Queen Street – Schott hired a warehouse there two weeks ago."

"_Way to go, Chloelicious!" _Bart's voice broke in, the teenager obviously having been listening in to Chloe's transmission.

Chloe grinned, the relief writ large over her face. "You guys get over there – I'll be with you as soon as I can. Watchtower out."

Barely had Chloe cut the com link then she was out of her seat and heading towards the door.

"Jimmy, monitor communications – if anything suspicious happens, tell Clark immediately," she said, glancing over her shoulder as she made for the exit. "I'm heading out there – Oliver will need me."

"Good luck," replied Jimmy, trying to sound as sincere as he could. As he listened to Chloe getting into the elevator and begin her descent, he slumped back into his seat.

It had been more than an hour since he'd made his call to the mob - that should have been more than enough time for them to get to the address and deal with Oliver.

"_Sorry, Chloe, but you're too late – Oliver is most likely already dead."_

* * *

It was approaching midnight as the car turned into Queen Street, moving slowly so as to limit the amount of noise it generated. Attention was the last thing the man in the back seat of the Audi wanted, and therefore it was with satisfaction that he saw the road before him appeared empty of passers by. This was an out of the way location, quiet during daylight hours and usually deserted by night. Perfect, in fact, for the clinical operation he had planned.

His heart beat a little faster in his chest as the car glided down the street towards its destination. There hadn't been much time to organise things, but he felt confident he had sufficient muscle on hand to take out his target. It could have all been a false alarm, of course. The thought had crossed his mind, but the tip off had come from a reliable source; the mystery voice that had supplied the address was the same that had led Moretti to the Archer just days earlier. Moretti had been careless, and he would not repeat the mistakes of his former boss, now locked up in a Metropolis jail. This was his chance to make a name for himself, to show the Syndicate that he could deliver; carry this off, and he knew that the Metropolis operation would be as good as his.

The car glided to a halt next to a warehouse door, as anonymous as so many others in this part of town. The man's driver got out and opened the rear passenger door, allowing him to step out into the cool evening air; he stood for a moment, taking in the stillness that surrounded him.

It did not last long; within seconds of stepping foot onto the street and the doors of a large black van parked opposite swung open. Four men clambered out, each dressed in dark combat gear and armed with pistols. It was the crack team that the Syndicate had sent to sort out the Metropolis "problem" after Moretti's failure. Each came from a Special Forces background, and as they fanned out across the road their professional training was obvious; there could be little doubt that they would be more than a match for the leather clad vigilante.

"The guys are ready, Mr Pierce," said one of the men, striding up to where the man was standing. "We're just waiting for the order."

"Any signs of activity?"

"None – not outside or inside. If he's in there, we've got him. I've got four guys covering the back exit – we've got this place sewn up tight."

"That's good," replied Pierce, impressed by the businesslike efficiency of the other man; his military background was showing. "But remember, Benson, we need to take him alive – the Syndicate want to make an example of the Archer before they kill him."

Without another word, the Benson nodded to his associates, who then took up positions to either side of the warehouse entrance. Guns at the ready, they paused for a second, before one of them launched himself at the door, kicking it open with a single blow. As if taking part in some exercise, they then rushed through the entrance, shouting warnings as they did so; Pierce remained outside, content to let the professionals take the risk of any violent confrontation that might ensue. For ten to fifteen seconds he stood alone on the threshold of the warehouse, listening to the cacophony of shouts that seemed to echo in the darkness that lay beyond. There were no gunshots, something which Pierce did not know what to make of; either they had managed to take the Arrow without too much of a fight, or their quarry was not there.

At last Benson emerged from the warehouse, a strange half smile on his face.

"Well? Have you got him?" asked Pierce, sensing from Benson's expression that he was going to receive an answer in the affirmative.

"Oh yeah, we got him," replied Benson, his smile morphing into a fully fledged grin. "I think you're gonna want to see this."

Glancing quizzically at Benson, Pierce stepped inside the warehouse. He found himself in a narrow corridor, but five or six steps led him to another door, again forced open by Benson's men just moments before. He stepped forward, to find himself in a large, empty area, clearly the heart of the warehouse. Benson's men were ranged in a circle around the concrete floor, all pointing their guns upwards and towards the centre of the space. Their target, hanging helplessly from a set of heavy chains and unable to offer any resistance, was a sight that caused Pierce's heart to miss a beat.

_The Green Arrow!_

Pierce stared for a moment, before exchanging glances with Benson. It seemed too good to be true – the vigilante who had rung rings around the Syndicate's operation for weeks, presented to him on a plate. Gradually a broad smile formed on his lips, as he thought about what this would mean; surely after this there could be no doubt that the Metropolis operation was his for the taking.

"Well, well – would you look at that? Metropolis's favourite bandit, all tied up and nowhere to go," he sneered, walking up to where the young hero hung helplessly from the rafters. As he got closer he could see that whilst the Arrow's hood was up, his trademark glasses were missing; a battered, blood stained face stared back at him, silenced by the presence of two or three strips of duct tape across his mouth.

"Guess this isn't your lucky day, Green Arrow," continued Pierce, enjoying his moment centre-stage. "And we thought we were the only ones who wanted to get their hands on you – looks like someone beat us to it."

The Arrow's eyes widened, and Pierce could hear him try to say something through his gag. He seemed agitated, moving his head to try to add weight to the words that could not be understood.

"Relax, hero boy," said Pierce. "We're not going to kill you – at least not yet. No, I'm going to truss you up and send you express delivery to my bosses – and man, you have no idea how much they are looking forward to meeting you."

"Mr Pierce, look," said Benson, realising that Oliver's ever more desperate grunting into his gag was something more than the angry pleas of a man cornered and with no obvious means of escape. "That box strapped to his chest – I think it might be a bomb."

Until now transfixed by Oliver's face, Pierce now followed Benson's pointing finger and saw the device attached to Oliver's tunic, the tell tale electronic timer showing clearly on its front. A split second's panic that he might be facing imminent death himself was soon dismissed; the display showed that countdown to any possible explosion still had many minutes to run.

"Get him down – and disarm that bomb," he ordered, stepping back as Benson and two of his men moved in to lower Oliver to the floor. "I want him alive – I don't want to send a bag of body parts to New York."

Within seconds Oliver had been lowered to the ground. His hands remained shackled as he lay on the ground, and some rope around his ankles prevented him from attempting any sort of escape. Still he protested violently as Benson tried to unstrap the bomb from his chest, shouting with ever greater force into the gag and struggling to resist.

"Stay still, you piece of shit," said Benson angrily, slapping Oliver around the face. He gestured to his men to help him, and two of them each took one of Oliver's arms to hold him in place. His captive effectively restrained, Benson proceeded to detach the bomb from Oliver's chest. He examined it for a moment, before pressing a button on its front; the countdown display went black.

"Is it disarmed?" asked Pierce.

"Yeah, it's disarmed. Simple switch mechanism – pretty basic design," replied Benson, standing up and stepping to one side. Pierce then moved forward, towering over his prize who lay immobilised before him.

"You know something, Arrow? I think it would have been better for you if that bomb _had_ gone off – would have saved you a whole world of pain."

Again Oliver shouted into his gag, his eyes wide and urgent.

"You wanna say something? Okay, hero boy, let's hear what you've got to say," said Pierce, squatting down next to Oliver before tearing the duct tape from his mouth.

"Get out of here!" gasped Oliver. "The place is booby trapped. You need to get out of here – now!"

Pierce smiled. "Nice try, Archer, but do you really think I'm going to fall for that?"

"You don't understand. The bomb – it was a trigger. When you disarmed it, you set off the trap. Get out, for God's sake – get out now!"

Oliver's words were partially drowned out by a deafening metallic sound. Pierce turned, just in time to see a steel shutter close over the doorway through which they had entered.

"What the...."

"_Welcome, gentlemen. I must confess, I was expecting someone else, but life is full of surprises, isn't it?"_

A deafening voice filled the warehouse, echoing from wall to wall. Benson and his men immediately tensed, directing their guns in all directions as they attempted to locate its author.

"_Sorry, I'm afraid I won't be joining you for this final round of my little game – but I'll be watching, rest assured, I'll be watching!"_

"Who the hell are you? What's this all about?" demanded Pierce, now standing in the centre of the warehouse and looking around, trying to find the camera that he guessed must be watching their every move.

"_Who am I? I am Winslow Schott – and you, I suspect, are representatives of the mob that our leather clad friend has done so much to annoy in recent weeks. There is a certain irony in this situation, I have to confess – we share a common enemy, after all. But the game is the game, and I'm afraid there's no changing the rules now – you will all have to die, along with Mr Queen there."_

"Die? Look, whoever you are, the only person who's gonna die round here will be you, unless you let us out of here right now," said Pierce, trying to control the growing sense of unease he felt at a situation that was fast spiralling out of control.

"_I'm afraid I can't do that. You see there's only one exit from the room you are now in, and that steel door is twelve inches thick – I should know, I had it installed personally."_

"So what now? You gonna starve us to death or something?"

"_Hardly. No, I thought this might be more appropriate."_

Suddenly the sound of air moving at high pressure filled the room. As they watched six jets of reddish coloured gas appeared high above them, quickly filling the roof space in an ominous haze.

"_A gas of my own invention – lethal, of course. If my calculations are correct, at the current rate of gas release, you should all be dead in 5.3 minutes, give or take the odd second."_

One of Benson's men ran to the steel door, hoping to make his escape. As his hands touched the handle there was a sickening crackle of electricity, before the man was thrown like a doll half way across the room.

"_Oh, I forgot to tell you – the door is electrified," _said Schott casually, as Benson knelt over his wounded comrade. He checked for signs of life, before looking up at Pierce and shaking his head.

"Look, we can make a deal," said Pierce, trying not to sound too desperate. "If it's money you want, I can arrange that. All it ...."

"_I don't want mob money,"_ replied Schott, his disdain audible in his voice. _"What I want is to see that shit die a horrible death! I'm sorry you got drawn into this, gentlemen, truly I am, but the game has begun – there can be no turning back. Enjoy what time remains to you. Goodbye now – and remember Oliver, I'll be watching!"_

"Schott!" shouted Pierce, knowing as he did so that the line was dead.

Silence suddenly filled the room, save for the sound of the gas which continued to pour in above them, slowly moving ever closer to where they stood.

It was at that moment that the truth hit home to Pierce.

They were all going to die.

* * *

Hope you liked it! Ollie is in a whole lot of trouble, and time is running out - not just for him, but also for this story! I'm planning on three more chapters, and there are still some shocking twists to come.

No Ollie on Smallville this week, or next - depressing! But the latest promo shows some scary Ollie action for the episode "Sacrifice" - can't wait!

Thanks for reading, and thanks especially to those of you who review. Please do keep giving me feedback - however brief, it matters so much to me!


	21. Chapter 21: Out of Luck

**Chapter Twenty One: Out of Luck**

**(Warning: this chapter could shock you....)**

Oliver could smell it now.

The reddish haze of the gas had finally reached ground level, at last finding every corner of the large room that would be his tomb. It swirled around him like a silent killer, toying with him as it sought out his most vulnerable point so that it could fulfil its lethal mission. And now it had found it, the sickly sweet aroma of the gas teasing his nostrils and telling him that it would not be long now; it would not be long before this nightmare finally came to an end.

Oliver lay very still, trying to block out the terrible scenes that surrounded him. He understood that his best chance of clinging onto life until the last possible moment lay in remaining calm, not expending valuable energy and oxygen in futile attempts at escape. His would-be captors had no such grasp of their predicament. They ran from one side of the room to the other, desperately trying to find the way out that Oliver knew just wasn't there. They shouted and screamed, hoping against hope that someone would hear them, someone would come to their aid, but it was all to no avail. And now the shouts were becoming ever more desperate, some of the men hurling impotent obscenities into the air, others pleading for their lives. It was a gut wrenching sound, to hear grown men, men hardened by their service in the military, begging for mercy. Oliver tried to shut it out; if this was to be the end, he wanted to put his mind into a happy place, a mental paradise where only peace and serenity prevailed.

He closed his eyes and thought of Chloe. How he loved her! Her smiling face, so achingly beautiful, filled his mind's eye, offering him the succour and comfort he needed as his life force began slowly to ebb away. As he thought back over the months they had shared together a smile formed on his lips, a smile born of the knowledge that if this was to be where his journey ended, then at least he would die having known what it was to truly love. His life before Chloe didn't matter – not the wealth, not the mansions, the clothes, the rich boy's toys, not even his double life as the Green Arrow. Nothing mattered apart from the small young woman with the cutest smile in the world, the woman who had captured his heart so completely. Chloe Sullivan had given him the most perfect, the most beautiful, moments of his life – and nothing, not even death, could rob him of those most precious of memories.

There was silence in the room now. The shouting had stopped, and now all that could be heard was the sound of the gas which continued to be pumped in high above him. He opened his eyes. The gas was thick now, hanging heavily in the air and enveloping everything in its fatal embrace. It was difficult to make out anything in the haze, but just for a moment he caught a glimpse of Pierce, now lying just a few feet from where he lay. It was clear that he was dead; his body was not moving, and his eyes stared wildly into space, empty and fearful at the last. It couldn't be long now – not long at all....

Again he closed his eyes, conjuring once more Chloe's face into his mind. She was smiling that incredible smile, but now there was something more. Could he be dreaming – was that really her perfume that now filled his senses, driving out the smell of the gas that continued to silently steal away his life force? And more still - now he could taste her, the sweetness of her lips like nectar to his parched and beaten mouth. A voice inside him told him to stay alert, to fight for every moment of life, but as his mind at last began to lose consciousness he knew he did not want to fight. She was with him, and that was everything:

_Goodbye, Chloe – I love you! I love you so much....._

And with those words echoing in his mind, Oliver Queen at last succumbed to the fumes that now wrapped around him like a shroud, slipping into the sleep from which he would not awaken.....

* * *

Within seconds of Chloe's call Clark had made it to the address on Queen Street. He knew he should feel positive; Chloe had cracked Schott's clue with ample time to spare, and rescuing Oliver should present few challenges. But, in the very short time he'd had to think about it, he could not drive the nagging sense of unease from his mind. It had been with him ever since Schott's transmission; a feeling that they were missing something, that everything was not quite as it seemed. Schott was an intelligent man; equally he was a man hell bent on taking Oliver's life. Why leave a clue? Why risk losing the game by giving your opponents an opportunity to win? It didn't add up – something just wasn't quite right, not quite right at all...

A rush of air heralded Bart's arrival, the teenager's energy showing that he shared none of Clark's concerns.

"Whoa, beat me again, Boy Scout! Dude, you just gotta tell me...."

"No!" gasped Clark, cutting off Bart mid-sentence.

"What is it, dude? What do you see?" said Bart, his trademark humour suddenly absent from his voice. He could see that Clark was using his x-ray vision to scan the warehouse, and the look on the older man's face spoke volumes; whatever it was, it wasn't good.

"Stay here," said Clark simply, before he rushed forward, tearing the door to the warehouse from its hinges and disappearing inside. Usually Bart was not one to take orders, but on this occasion he did as he was told; there was something about Clark's manner, the ashen look on his face, that told him this was not the time to rock the boat.

Two seconds later Clark re-emerged, a cloud of reddish gas following him from the warehouse. In his arms he held Oliver's body, the young hero's limbs hanging limp and lifeless from Clark's powerful hold. With the care of a father laying down a baby in its cot, Clark gently lay Oliver down on the ground. For a few moments he stared at the face of his friend; battered and covered in blood, it nonetheless appeared the very picture of serenity and peace. Reluctantly he then turned and returned to the warehouse, conscious that there were other lives to save.

In less than a minute Clark had retrieved all the victims of Schott's trap, lining their bodies along the ground like the recovered victims of some natural disaster. His actions were in vain; all but Oliver were already dead. Bart and Clark huddled around Oliver's body, fearing the worst, but hoping for the best.

"He's gonna be okay, isn't he? He's breathing – that means he's gonna be okay, doesn't it?" said Bart, his youth showing in his words.

"I don't know, Bart – I just don't know. He's breathed in a lot of that gas, and that can't be good," replied Clark, not taking his eyes from his friend's apparently sleeping face. It was the best that he could find to say; whatever chemicals Schott had used, the concoction had already proved fatal for the other unfortunates who had breathed it in. Oliver was only human, and just at that moment he had never looked so weak, so utterly vulnerable.

Suddenly Oliver's body jerked into life, his back arching momentarily, before falling back to the ground.

"Clark...." It was Oliver's voice, barely more than the weakest of whispers.

"Oliver!" replied Clark, meeting the gaze of his friend, whose eyes had now opened.

"Hey dude, don't do that to us, man!" said Bart, his relief tangible.

Oliver mustered the thinnest of smiles, before reaching out and feeling for Clark's hand. Clark immediately took it, clasping it firmly to give Oliver the reassurance that he sensed he needed. He did not share Bart's relief. He could see the fear in Oliver's eyes, a look that said that this time it was not going to be okay – this time they had come too late...

"Oliver, hang on, okay? It's going to be fine – you're going to be fine," he said, trying to convince himself as much as the young man who lay stricken before him. He gripped Oliver's hand tightly, willing him to believe, to hang on to life.

"Nice try, Clark," whispered Oliver, his voice even fainter than before. "But not this time, yeah? I'm all outta luck, Clark – no coming back from this one."

"Don't say that!" urged Clark, clasping the other man's hand ever tighter. Somehow he felt that through pure exertion of his will he could keep his friend alive, but even as he spoke he could see Oliver's hold on life slipping away.

"Clark, do something for me, okay? Tell Chloe I love her – tell her that she means more to me than anything else in the world."

"Tell her yourself," whispered Clark, his voice cracking as tears began to well up in his eyes.

"Promise me you'll tell her, Clark – promise."

Clark paused, his eyes misting as he met the gaze of his dying friend.

"I promise."

Oliver's body appeared to relax for a moment, and a slight smile formed on his lips. His last mission complete, his eyelids flickered, before closing; silently his head rolled gently to one side.

"No!" sobbed Bart, not needing to be told what was obvious to both of them.

"He's gone, Bart," said Clark quietly, slowly pulling his hand from Oliver's. Tears flowed down both men's cheeks as they looked upon their fallen comrade, now still and silent.

Oliver Queen was dead.

* * *

Well, I did warn you that this chapter would shock you. Is Ollie dead? I'm not saying, but you know me - I like to push the boundaries, and nothing is off limits!

Thanks for reading, and please do review if you can - your feedback is so important to me, and is the reason I keep writing!


	22. Chapter 22: Resurrection

**Chapter Twenty Two: Resurrection**

"He's not dead – he can't be!"

Bart's words shattered the terrible silence that filled the air. Clark continued to kneel next to Oliver; struck dumb with grief, for a moment he was at a loss as to how to respond to the devastating events that had unfolded before him. It seemed so unreal, as if he were witnessing something that was a part of some awful dream. Oliver – dead! It couldn't be – it just couldn't be! Suddenly something within him told him that this was not the end. Oliver would not die – not here, not like this. He would not allow it – and he would fight to keep his friend alive, whatever the cost.

In an instant he sprang into life. He pulled open Oliver's mouth, before carefully tilting the young hero's head back to free the airway. Oliver might not be breathing, but he could still be brought back to them – all he had to do was to deploy his CPR training, training he had used countless times before as he had saved people from burning buildings. There was no time to get him to a hospital – he had to do what he could there and then, and pray for a miracle.

"Bart, call Oliver's personal doctor – tell him to get here right away," ordered Clark, before pressing his mouth against Oliver's and forcing air into those lifeless lungs. Bart paused for a moment, as if the pace of events was too much even for him to comprehend, before he did as he was told.

_Oliver, stay with us – you're not going anywhere, do you hear? We need you, Oliver – Chloe needs you!_

And so it began – a desperate bid to cheat the grim reaper, and pull Oliver Queen back from the dead. With every minute that passed Clark could feel his hopes of success ebbing away, but still he carried on. He refused to be defeated – he refused to let Oliver die.

"Hey guys, look what I found," said a familiar voice after Clark had been working on Oliver for about five minutes. He glanced over his shoulder, to find AC walking towards them, carrying Schott by the scruff of the neck.

As he got closer his face changed. He saw the tears that stained Bart's eyes, and Oliver's unmoving form; the tragedy that was unfolding was all too clear.

"No...," he said quietly, unable to take in the scene before him.

"Too late, Mr Kent?" said Schott, who, despite being held securely by AC, grinned from ear to ear. "I'm so glad you made it, by the way – I was worried when the others beat you to it that perhaps you would miss the climax to my little game."

"Shut the hell up!" shouted AC, grabbing Schott by the neck and lifting him off the ground with a single hand. "If he dies I'm gonna kill you, you sick piece of shit!"

Schott could not speak, but to AC's disgust he continued to grin inanely at him, even as he dangled a foot or so off the ground. Unable to bring himself to look at the man any longer, he threw him with all the force he could muster through the air. Schott was a big man, but AC tossed him aside like a rag doll; he hit a nearby wall with bone crunching force, slipping lifelessly to the ground.

"How long?" asked AC, joining Bart alongside Oliver's lifeless body as Clark continued to perform CPR.

"Six minutes," replied Bart. "This is bad, dude – this is _so _bad."

AC did not reply. The two men could only stand by and hope – hope that Clark could work some miracle, and save the life of the man who had given all of them a fresh start, and a new direction.

For three minutes more Clark labored over Oliver's body, forcing air into his lungs and going through the routine of chest compressions that he knew so well. But at last he paused, sensing that what he was doing was not enough – the battle was lost.

AC placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"He's gone, Clark," he said quietly. "Give it up – you can't do any more."

Clark glanced up at AC, before looking back at Oliver. His face still seemed so serene, so peaceful – as if in death he had found a contentment that had sometimes eluded him in life. Clark knew AC was right – this really was it. Sighing, he slowly got to his feet, joining his comrades in a silent vigil around Oliver's corpse.

"Clark, what's happening? Where's Oliver?"

Clark's heart missed a beat – Chloe! How could he tell her? How could he break the most terrible news it was possible to imagine? A knot of fear formed in his gut as slowly he turned in the direction of the familiar voice, his face ashen.

"Clark......is that....?" said Chloe, who was running towards them. She'd seen Oliver – it wouldn't be long now.....

"Chloe, we did all we could....but Schott poisoned him with some sort of gas... we did..."

Clark's faltering words dried up as he stared at Chloe, who had now come to a halt just a couple of feet from where they stood. She was staring fixedly at Oliver, her features frozen, uncomprehending.

"Is he...?" she asked flatly, her voice strangely drained of emotion.

Clark paused before he answered.

"He's dead, Chloe – I'm so sorry."

Chloe said nothing for a moment, but simply continued to stare fixedly at Oliver's unmoving form.

"No...no, you're wrong," she said at last, her voice needy and desperate. "He's just sleeping – can't you see that? He's just sleeping, that's all."

With that she stepped passed Clark, and knelt by Oliver's body. She tilted her head ever so slightly to one side as tears began to well up in her eyes; she tried to force a smile onto her face, as if ignoring the truth in all its stark reality would somehow keep it at bay. She reached forward, and with an almost unbearable tenderness she brushed the side of his cheek with the back of her hand. The softness of his skin comforted her, and she tried to blot out the unfamiliar coldness that greeted her touch. It was such a simple gesture, but one so heartbreaking it was almost too much to bear; the men looked to their feet, not wishing to intrude on a moment of unspeakable sadness.

"He's asleep, that's all....just asleep," she whispered, the tears now running down the sides of her cheeks. "Wake up now, Ollie – everyone's waiting! Wake up....please wake up....."

She lifted his head from the ground, and carefully eased herself forward so that she could cradle it in her lap. Pulling a tissue from her pocket, she began to wipe away the blood that was caked around his eyes and mouth, even as her own tears continued to flow; his refusal to respond to her touch was making it more and more difficult to maintain the fiction that he was alright, and that at any moment he would wake from what was simply a very deep sleep.

"Chloe..." said Clark, reaching out and placing a hand on her shoulder. He needed her to face the truth, to bring the excruciating pain of the moment to an end, but it was no use; she would not let him go – not yet.

"No!" she said, pulling away from Clark's touch. "He's sleeping, do you hear? C'mon, Ollie, wake up now, please. I can't lose you – not now, not like this. I love you too much.....I love you too much......"

And with that words at last failed her. She pulled him a little closer, so that her arms wrapped around him like a protective shield. She let her head drop so that it rested on his, the smell of his hair filling her nostrils like a remembrance of happier times. And the tears flowed – they flowed like rivers of sorrow down her cheeks and onto his face, mixing with the blood and bruised tissue that now marred his once handsome features.....

It was then that it happened. Something at once wonderful and inexplicable, something which those who stood round and witnessed it will never forget for as long as they live.....

A warm glow suddenly appeared, bathing the whole area in a pool of golden light. At its heart was Oliver, his face bathed in what at first appeared to be a ray of sunlight, but which then grew in intensity to the point where Clark and the others had to put up their hands to shield their eyes. Chloe did not move, a point of stillness at the centre of whatever was taking place before them; instead she continued to cradle her lover in her arms, wholly at one with the man who had transformed her life. And all the time the intensity of the light continued to build, until it seemed as if it would blind all around....

And then it was gone, as suddenly as it had appeared.

Cautiously, the guys slowly lowered their hands, not quite knowing what to expect. It was Clark who saw her first – Chloe, now slumped lifelessly over Oliver's body.

"Chloe!" he said, rushing forward and gently taking her in his arms. Her eyes were closed, and she wasn't moving.

"She's not..." asked AC, his voice betraying the fact that he feared the worst.

"No!" said Clark, feeling for Chloe's pulse. It was weak, but it was there – whatever had just happened, she was still with them.

"What the hell was that?" asked Bart, shaken but clearly relieved that Chloe was safe.

Clark did not answer, but simply continued to cradle Chloe in his arms. He thought he understood, but hardly dared to hope.....

"Chloe....."

The voice was so faint it was almost inaudible, but it caused every single waking heart to miss a beat. All eyes turned towards Oliver, longing for a confirmation of the miracle that they had just heard. Could it really be? Was it really the voice of the man they thought was lost to them, cheating death once more?

_Oliver!_

It was true – there, eyes open and staring up at them, was Oliver Queen. _He was alive!_ No one spoke; stunned, not one of them could find the words to express the torrent of emotions they felt at that moment. Only Oliver understood, comprehended the immensity of what had taken place ; like Lazarus in the eye of a silent storm, he reached out, feeling for Chloe's hand. He found it, and grasped it firmly; satisfied that they were as one once more, he allowed his eyes to close again, and sleep overtook him.

They were together again, and they were safe; for now, it was enough.

* * *

You didn't really think I'd kill Ollie, did you? I love him too much! He's safe - at least for now (cue evil laughter).

Some of you have wanted me to use Chloe's healing powers, and it seemed right to bring them in here. I'm not an expert in them, but I did go and re-watch the scene where Chloe revives Lois - I've tried to remain faithful to how the power has been shown on screen. I hope it works - up to you to judge!

Loving the Chlollie we're seeing on screen at the moment, but a little worried about the future - please let them both survive to Season Ten!

Only one more chapter to go, just to round things up. Thanks for reading - please leave a review if you can, as every one means a huge amount to me.


	23. Chapter 23: Of Love and Loathing

**Chapter Twenty Three: Of Love and Loathing**

She still hadn't come round.

Six days had passed since Chloe had slumped unconscious over Oliver's battered body, unaware that the miracle that she had prayed for had happened – the man she loved had returned from the dead. For those who waited it had been six days of almost unbearable anxiety, their joy at Oliver's miraculous resurrection tempered by their fear that in saving him – and it was Chloe who had saved him, although just how they did not understand – she might herself have paid the ultimate price. No one understood this more than the man who now sat by her bedside, the man who alone could grasp the power of the love that had driven her to place her life in jeopardy, because he would have done the same for her:

Oliver.

He had begun his vigil as soon as his wounds had been patched up, resisting all attempts to persuade him to rest. The painkillers dulled the effects of the wounds that were now wrapped in bandages, but even if they hadn't, even if he had been suffering excruciating pain, he would still have been sitting in that chair, watching over her and waiting for that moment when at last she would return to him. No one knew when that would be, the doctors that Oliver had employed to give her the best medical care possible unable to offer any words of comfort or reassurance. All they could say was that she was in a coma and that it was impossible to predict how long it would last – perhaps days, perhaps weeks, perhaps..... The last possibility was too terrible to think about, something he had forced to the back of his mind. She was a fighter, and he knew that she would come back to him – any other outcome he would simply not accept.

He'd barely slept for days, snatching a few hours of fitful rest now and again but always refusing to abandon his place at her side. He had to be there when she came to; it was as if he feared that were he not there when at last her eyes opened her heart would break, and she would slip back into a sleep from which she would never wake up. She looked so calm, so beautiful as she lay there, only the wires and monitors surrounding her giving any sense that all was not well. She had to wake up soon, she just had to.....

_Wake up, Chloe! I love you – I love you so much, I can't bear to think of life without you!_

A tear rolled down the side of Oliver's face, his emotions at last getting the better of him. He reached out and took her hand, as he had done a hundred times before during the long hours of waiting. He needed to touch her, to feel her, to reassure her that he was still there, that he would never abandon her, not so long as there was life left in his body.

"Oliver?"

His heart missed a beat. Had he imagined it? The voice was weak, so weak it might be his exhausted mind playing tricks on him, but yet....

"Oliver!"

There it was again, and this time there could be no doubt. He looked towards her face, hoping against hope......

"Chloe!"

The joy he felt at that moment, as at long last he looked once more into the eyes of the woman he loved so much, was a joy so pure, so sweet, that it would stay with him for the rest of his life. She had come back to him! For a split second he froze, his mind struggling to comprehend that at long last his prayers had been answered. Then instinct took over; he leaned forward, placing his lips on hers and kissing her with an exquisite gentleness that seemed utterly at one with the moment.

"I thought I'd lost you," he said, when at last their lips parted. He continued to lean over her, stroking her hair tenderly and gazing into her eyes which seemed to sparkle more brightly than ever before. At that moment he thought he might stare at her forever, for fear that were he to look away she might weaken and fall back into the coma, never to wake up. She looked so fragile, but so indescribably beautiful; her smile radiated a warmth that would melt the coldest heart.

"Likewise," she replied weakly, the smile on her face suddenly being replaced with a look of concern. "But you're face – you're hurt...."

"Just cuts and bruises – I'll be fine."

"And Schott...?"

"Don't worry about Winslow – he's taken care of," said Oliver. "Right about now he should be completing his fifth day as a guest in one of my more secure facilities – I'm sure he and Lex are getting along just fine."

Chloe smiled, appearing to relax a little. The man who had come so close to killing them both was safely under lock and key – he could not threaten them anymore.

"Chloe....," said Oliver, pausing for a moment as if trying to right words.

"You don't need to say anything, Oliver," said Chloe, instantly understanding what the young man was trying to say. "I love you, okay? That's all that matters – I love you more than you can ever imagine."

He smiled. "Oh, I think I can imagine," he replied, before leaning in once more to kiss her.

They were together again, their love for each other stronger than ever.

After everything that had happened, at last they would enjoy their happy ending.

* * *

_Chloe's awake!!!! Get over here now and join the party!!!!_

Jimmy stared at the text he'd just received from AC, a flood of conflicting emotions sweeping over him. His sense of relief was overwhelming; after the tensions of the last few days he felt physically sick to see that his worst fears were not to come true after all. If Chloe had died he knew he would never have been able to forgive himself. His actions had put the life of the woman he loved in mortal danger, and the thought that he might be responsible for her death was too much to bear. Mentally he'd prepared himself for the worst; the mix of pills he'd carefully laid out next to the bottle of whiskey, his passport to oblivion, would not now be needed after all. _She was alive! _After all the disappointments and traumas of the last few days and months at last he could rejoice in some good news. His dream of a life with Chloe lived on – he had gone to the brink of the abyss, but by some miracle he had been pulled back.

The relief he felt was mixed with bitterness, however - bitterness at how once again Oliver had cheated death. Everything had been going so well, with Schott coming to within an inch of succeeding in snuffing out the life of his rival once and for all. How terrible the irony that had he not called the mob when he discovered Oliver's location, then the man would probably be dead; instead he was now at Chloe's bedside, taking the place that was rightfully his. How he hated him! It was as if with every passing day Jimmy's loathing of the billionaire who had everything he wanted seemed to burn with an ever greater intensity. He could see him now, sitting by her side, caressing her face, kissing her lips.....it was too much! It turned his stomach to think of him touching her. How was it fair that someone who already had so much, should be allowed to have even more? Even the reputation of his alter ego had survived Schott's scheme intact, some security camera footage sent to the "Planet" showing Schott as the true killer of the guard and exonerating the Archer completely. The hero had survived again – and he, Jimmy Olsen, was once again left with nothing.

He reached across and poured himself a large glass of whiskey, before downing it in one gulp. It was going to be long night, and the sooner he numbed himself to the pain of his latest setback the better.

Setback. As he poured himself a second glass he dwelt on that word, considering its meaning. He had suffered a setback, that was true – but you can recover from setbacks. Chloe was alive, and he could still make her his own. He'd made a mistake in relying on others to deal with Oliver, allowing his own cowardice to get in the way of the decisive action that would enable him to fulfil his dreams. Well he didn't feel like a coward anymore – far from it. Hatred of Oliver had long since consumed him, driving away all restraint, all hesitation. He knew in his heart that he could kill, and that if he wanted to win Chloe he now had very little option but to act with a ruthlessness that just months earlier would have shocked him.

This wasn't over – not by a long shot.

Oliver Queen was going to die – and he would kill him himself.

**THE END**

* * *

It's finished! My fourth story, completed. Did you enjoy it? I hope so. Thanks so much for reading, and a special thanks to all those who have reviewed since I started this one all those months ago - writing isn't always easy, and getting your feedback has helped keep me going when part of me was saying walk away and forget about it.

I've left open the possibility of a sequel, and in fact I've got three or four story ideas in my head at the moment - at the rate I write, enough to keep me going for years! Not yet sure whether I will write them at the moment - I don't want to start something and not finish it, and I need to think whether or not this might be the time to stop. If I do write another one I'll probably start it in three or four weeks' time - if you want more, some encouraging words in a review might just be enough to persuade me to go for it!

Thanks again for reading. Let's hope Ollie and Chloe survive the Season finale, because we need more of our favorite characters next year.

Remember: Chlollie rocks!!!!!


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